


All these false starts

by SolainRhyo



Series: Earthling-Verse [4]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Complete, Complicated love triangle, Cybertron is being rebuilt, Decepticon trouble, F/M, Knock Out love, Knock Out makes a move on Earthling, OT3, Reader-Insert, Rebound Sex, Rough Sex, Still a lot of love for Ultra Magnus, Ultra Magnus love, five years after Burn a hole, jealous rage, mutual but bitter breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolainRhyo/pseuds/SolainRhyo
Summary: After Ultra Magnus returns to Cybertron to aid in the restoration, things between the two of you come to a mutual yet painful end. In the years that follow you learn to cope with the aftermath, learn to fall back into the rhythms of a normal life, and it all works fine until Knock Out abruptly and irritatingly inserts himself into your life again—this time with a proposition so ludicrous that you’re completely taken aback.… and, if you're being honest, more than a little intrigued.(AU sequel toBurn a hole in the old grip of the familiar.)
Relationships: Knock Out/Human, Knock Out/Reader, Knock Out/You, Reader/Knock Out, Reader/Ultra Magnus, Ultra Magnus/Human, Ultra Magnus/Reader, Ultra Magnus/You
Series: Earthling-Verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1525721
Comments: 171
Kudos: 329





	1. Foresight fails

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU sequel to my AU Ultra Magnus/Reader fic. It might be a bit confusing if you haven't read that one first.

Ultra Magnus broke your heart. Maybe you broke his, too — can sparks be broken? You’d hoped so, selfishly and with fervor in the weeks and months that followed that awful decision—that awful _mutual_ decision. Mutual because as it turns out, being approximately 4.5 light years and literal worlds apart put insurmountable weight on your long distance relationship. You’d tried. He’d tried. You’d both held on for as long as you could until the truth could no longer be shoved aside and forcibly ignored: there was no future for the two of you together. He had chosen, understandably, to return to Cybertron to help rebuild it after the restoration of the Omega Lock. You had supported him in this, because why wouldn’t you? It was his _home._ But you’d viewed it all from a human’s perspective, with your limited, diminutive grasp on the concept of time and its passage. You should have known better. You did know better. So did he. 

The distance took a toll. The stress he was under, to recreate what was broken, to work at gathering the lost and scattered Cybertronians so that they could return to a home still in pieces—it manifested in little ways, tiny fissures that widened over time, that littered the emotional distance between you both. You hadn’t coped well, either—seeing him once every three or four months for a day or two at a time wasn’t enough. It left you feeling like _you_ weren’t enough. That you never would be. And that’s the drain your thoughts began to circle around: you’d never provide enough. You’d die before he even came remotely close to being middle-aged. Your window of existence was laughably brief in the grand scheme of things, something that loving Ultra Magnus had really driven home. Still, the both of you plodded on, weathering whatever storms popped up due to unease, to uncertainty, to insecurity, to anger. You endured and kept enduring until suddenly neither of you could anymore.

Three years after meeting each other, knowing each other, loving each other, it ended. It ended over a video call, an insult to you both, but you were both incapable of doing it face to face. At least you assume he was. You _know_ you were. You’d stared at his image, which was marred by intermittent static, and wondered why, back then, you’d both been so foolish as to think that this could work. 

“I am sorry,” he told you, each word weighted with regret and sorrow, each word punching a new hole through your already perforated heart. 

“Yeah,” you managed in a voice that skated between being watery and shattered, “Me too.”

He looked away then, the only time you’d seen him display reflexive avoidance born of emotion, and it _shredded_ you while also confirming that there was in fact enough of you left to shred. He said, “I do not know when I will be able to return—”

“There’s no need,” you responded, too quickly, too harshly. You’d tried to temper it with a sad, pathetic smile that wilted as soon as it was formed. “Cybertron needs you.” _And so do I._ But you couldn’t say that, because it no longer mattered. You’d both arrived at this destination. You’d both have to see it through. 

His eyes returned to you and even through the screen you could feel his contrition, his anger, his sadness. It was there in the dimmed glow of his eyes, the narrowed space between his brow plating, the flatter than usual line of his mouth. Ultra Magnus, dedicated and committed Autobot soldier, so often austerity personified, was mourning what he’d known with you. That glimpse you’d caught of his anger—you wondered which of you it was intended for. You hoped it was you. It would make it easier to hate him in the aftermath, save the fact that you were unsure that you could ever hate someone who had connected so deeply with you on every possible level. You hated yourself for thinking such trite, sappy bullshit in the moments that followed, because it was a rookie move, because shit like that would make everything to come so much worse. 

“I will have to return eventually,” he said quietly. 

You’d known this. Rebuilding Cybertron required gargantuan amounts of energon and it was a planet severely depleted of that resource and thus, the Autobots maintained mining operations here on Earth through the good will of and working relations with Fowler. 

All you could do was nod. 

“There is no reason we cannot—”

“There _is_ a reason!” you interrupted, because _god-fucking-damnit._ You lifted a hand, thumped yourself in the chest so hard it hurt. “My feelings are the reason. I don’t know how you—how you—how you _deal_ with shit like this… but _I can’t._ I can’t pretend. We’re over, so we’re over. It’ll be easier if I don’t—if we don’t—”

He understood. Long seconds passed until finally he gave you a slow, reluctant nod. And that’s when you killed the call, slamming your hand down on the interface while shoving yourself away from it as though it had burned you. You stood there for a long span of moments, breathing hard, blinking tears back furiously, your hands fisted but not tightly enough to stop them from shaking. _It was mutual,_ you reminded yourself. _It was mutual. It was mutual and it hurts and I hate it but it’s done. It’s done. It’s over._

“Earthling?”

Ratchet. His voice made you realize just how long you’d been standing there, lost within the first shitty stages of heartbreak.

“Are you finished with your call?”

Your mouth was oddly dry. You opened it and mustered your voice and wondered how you would sound—weepy? Shrill? Lifeless? “Yeah,” you said, satisfied when that one word fell dull and soft into the expanse of the operations area. You turned around and headed toward the ground bridge. Today would conclude like every other day since Ultra Magnus had returned to Cybertron, save for one small thing: you would never converse with the Autobot second in command again. Ratchet didn’t need to know that, though. You waited for the familiar sound of the ground bridge opening. You waited for the wash of coruscating bluish green light. You waited and then snapped a glance toward Ratchet, who was standing motionless at the ground bridge controls. “I’m ready,” you told him. 

His eyes were narrowed, his countenance bearing that intensely speculative expression that you had early on learned to fear. _Please, Ratchet, not today,_ you beseeched him silently. Maybe he heard you, because he lifted a hand and activated the ground bridge. Your sigh of relief was probably audible. 

You were three steps into the bridge when behind you he asked, “Will you be coming back?”

Tears stung your eyes. He knew. You supposed it was fairly easy to connect the dots: a short-lived human and an Autobot with longevity Methuselah would envy. Massive amounts of distance separating you both. The onerous and incredibly difficult task of rebuilding a dead planet. The fact that your relationship had narrowed to video calls every other week. There had been other indicators, you knew, and Ratchet was deeply perceptive. He likely knew it was all destined for destruction before you did. 

Once again, it was a struggle to wrangle your voice into cooperation as you answered him. “Not for a while.”

“But you will come back.” He said it as a statement, not a question. 

“Sure.”

“Earthling.” And he was suddenly right there behind you, having taken the two steps he needed. You turned and it was difficult to look up at him, to see everything in his face that you didn’t want to see. 

“I’m sorry,” he offered after a moment.

You rubbed at the bridge of your nose and then, as tears beaded your lashes, rubbed at your eyes. “Was it obvious?” you asked, because the jig of pretending that things were fucking swell was up.

“Only recently.”

You huffed a fractured laugh. “Good to know.” 

“It was unfair to you,” he said, and your laugh became a sob as you looked up at him in astonishment. His expression had softened as he studied you. “Ultra Magnus should have had the consideration to end it when he chose to return to Cybertron.”

“We both decided to try.”

“Foolishly,” Ratchet remarked, which hurt. The look you gave him then was a wounded one and he went on with a gentle shake of his head, “But it was understandable. Had I faced the same decision with June—”

“You would have ended it,” you said with certainty.

There was only a small hesitation. “Yes. But I still understand his reasoning, and yours as well.”

“Love is bullshit,” you mumbled, using the pad of your thumb to wipe the moisture from your cheeks. 

“Will you be all right? I can call June, if you would like.”

You shook your head. “No. I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it. I just want to go home.”

“… Very well. Is there anything I can do?”

In that moment you adored him, for showing openly (even if temporarily) that your welfare mattered to him, for taking the time to offer what you know he ordinarily wouldn’t.

“Can you fix this?” you asked, touching your forefinger to your chest.

He gave a slow and regretful shake of his head. “That is one wound I lack the skill to mend.”

More tears. Your smile this time was one of gratitude. “Thank you for asking, Ratchet. I appreciate it.”

His answering smile was small and fleeting. “Go home. Rest. I’ll check up on you tomorrow.”

“That’s not necess—”

“And if you decide not to respond to me, I will mobilize and drive through this ground bridge until I’m on your lawn and then I’ll sound my horn—”

“I’ll respond,” you said, half-laughingly as you threw your hands up, your face an ugly mess of tears with the impending threat of snot. You began backing away, further into the ground bridge. 

“Be sure that you do,” he said, rising to his feet. You turned and traversed the rest of the ground bridge, waiting until the halfway mark before letting go of your very tenuous leash on your anguish. You knew Ratchet was watching you and so you held it together and once on the other side, the bridge _whooshing_ shut behind you, you let it all go and sank to the ground, arranging yourself into a cross-legged tableau of misery. And then you cried, hard and loud, because you loved an Autobot and he loved you but reality never meant for you to be together. You cried until you couldn’t and then you laid back on the grass, staring up at the late afternoon sky, remembering a night when you’d done the same with Ultra Magnus beside you. 

And then you cried again. 

**.x.**


	2. Brother's advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to Lisa, to whom I brought this concept wondering if it was a good idea, whose enthusiasm and input has got me all hyped up to write it. You are the Exalted Fork of Brain Picking and as before with Ultra Magnus, you will be instrumental in how this all develops. 
> 
> If you are a returning reader, bless you for hitching up to another of my wagons. If you're new, thanks for taking a chance on me.

**.x.**

It’s been two years since you last spoke to or saw Ultra Magnus. You’ve gotten over it, as much as you were able to. Some relationships leave holes that you can never really patch over, leave a legacy of little land mines that you trigger at random moments, causing you visceral flashes of a pain that will be part of you always. Some relationships leave a scattered trail of memories that don’t fade no matter how much you want them to. In Ultra Magnus’ wake, you’ve been saddled with them all. 

In the past two years, the only Autobot you’ve seen has been Ratchet. The others come back to Earth periodically to seek Ratchet’s assistance in matters of technology or medicine or to simply visit their old friend. Every time they return you are extended an invitation to return to the old base—as Optimus once told you, they consider their humans friends family. You decline the invitation each and every time, coming up with excuses from a long list you fabricated, aware that they know you are avoiding them (and one in among them in particular) and no longer caring. Ratchet tries to push the issue until one day he doesn’t, apparently having realized that your obstinacy in this regard will never lessen. In the first months after your separation from Ultra Magnus, after being alerted that the Autobots were returning for one of their visits, you would leave your home, afraid that an Autobot would bridge to your house to see you despite your excuses for not attending. You would flee, going to see your brother or heading out camping, coming home days later and surveying your empty yard with a mingled sense of relief and unhappiness. Your evasion tactics were childish. A real adult would step up and endure. You were okay with being childish, though, because it was giving you time to erect flimsy, dilapidated barriers around your still bleeding heart. Someday it would stop hurting. It had to, right?

It did, eventually. Time worked its magic, dulled the recollections enough that the pain they caused wasn’t emotionally and mentally debilitating. You went on as you were meant to, falling back into the rhythms your life had known before the Autobots. You began writing again, picking up where you’d left off before your unexpected, chaotic interlude, putting the finishing touches on a cyberpunk novel you’d been working on intermittently for the last ten years. It was received fairly well, or as well as it could be considering it was a departure from your science-fiction roots. You still saw June, Ratchet, and the boys once a month, sometimes more. They would bridge to your home and you would welcome them warmly because despite everything, they were still so very dear to you. You would cook for them on the nicer days and when it rained or in the winter you would entertain them inside. Through unspoken agreement these visits always took place at your home. Returning to Nevada was a step you weren’t sure you were capable of making yet. 

Aside from all this, there was another positive that came from discovering that life exists beyond Earth: you and your brother grew closer. You now see each other once every couple of months as opposed to three or four times a year. Most of the time he stops by while on his way to a job, though the two of you have gone camping numerous times with mutual friends. To simplify it, it’s nice to have him around, was particularly nice after the way things ended between you and… well, you know. Isaac, discerning in his own right, knew well enough to leave it be after you delivered the news. He isn’t a big believer in dwelling on things, and it was almost easy for you to adopt that outlook while in his company. About fourteen months post-Ultra Magnus, Isaac began to voice an opinion you really wish he’d kept to himself.

“Start dating,” he told you one night over the phone.

Your reaction was instinctive and bitchy. “No.”

“Look, _______, I know you think we ordinary puny human men will never measure up after—”

“I never fucking said that!”

“You didn’t have to. It’s pretty obvious and I don’t blame you for it. You had something with a autonomous robotic organism from another planet, and now that’s over. You’re still young… _ish—”_

You snorted. 

“You make good money with your books, you own your own place, you’re smart, I suppose some people might think you’re hot—”

“Get to the fucking point.”

“Download Tinder. Put a post on Kijiji. Get yourself out there.”

“I don’t need to be out there.”

“You sure? You sure you’re not lonely?”

You had opened your mouth to retort but found, infuriatingly, that you couldn’t. Isaac blazed on, merciless in his benevolent intentions. “I know you think you’re acting like you used to, and you are—except when you’re not. You’re different, and I see it when you don’t know it’s showing. You’re lonely. I know you’ll tell me that you’re okay being alone and I get that, I do, because you’re like me and we’re loners. But there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. You know that. You just don’t want to admit it.”

He was right and he knew you knew it. “Dating isn’t a fix,” is all you could think to say.

“It might not be,” he agreed, “but you don’t know that.”

You had forcibly turned the conversation around at that point in a tone that brooked no disagreement. He’d obeyed, only because he knew his words would get their hooks into you. And they did. 

And all of that is why you’re sitting here now on a bright day in June in a nice car next to a guy who’s smiling nervously at you, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “To be honest,” he is saying, “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

 _I didn’t either,_ is what you’re thinking. But instead you flash him a smile, showcasing a breezy confidence you certainly don’t feel, settling back in the seat and fastening the seat belt. “Well, here we are,” is your reply, complete with a flirty shrug. A part of you, detached and incredulous, is watching this from afar, thinking: _Who the fuck even are you right now?_ You ignore it. “So, what’s the plan tonight?”

**.x.**

The plan is a movie and dinner in Woodrill, a pop. 7000 town about forty-five minutes from your home. Your date—Caleb—is a nice guy. Not a Nice Guy™ of the trilby wearing, katana wielding variety, no—just a genuinely nice guy. Which makes the fact that you’re not really attracted to him at all so much worse. But you enjoy his company, you really do, because he is humorous and witty and truth be told, not hard to look at, either. He’s slightly taller than you, has dark hair and hazel eyes and an infectious grin. In any other world, if you’d lived another life, the chemistry might be there. It’s not in this world and you know you need to break it to him soon, but it’s just so enjoyable to be out doing things with someone who doesn’t know you that well, who doesn’t know your secrets or your past, who doesn’t know what kind of train wreck you have the very real potential to become. Caleb likes you superficially and it will never go beyond that because you won’t let it. You’re leading him on and you feel awful about it, but you can’t help it. Isaac was right. You’ve been lonely. 

The movie you see is a horror flick, one you’d been excited to see because it’s based on the works of Junji Ito. It’s a horrifying mind fuck, just like the source material, and as the credits roll it has firmly established itself at the top of your Favorite Horror Movies list. Dinner afterward is nothing fancy, just fast food eaten on the restaurant patio, as the two of you discuss which of Ito’s work disturbed you most (for you it’s the _Enigma of Amigara Fault,_ for Caleb it’s _Uzumaki_ ). Once you’re both finished he asks if you want dessert and you agree. He unlocks his car so you can wait there while he heads inside. You’d bought dinner the first time around (and were pleasantly surprised that he was agreeable to the concept rather than insulted) and so he’s covering the meal this time. You make your way to his car, admiring it as you do so. He readily admitted he spent more than he should on it as it was his dream car, and it’s a mighty fine one at that: a Toyota 86, the newest special edition, royal purple and gold with a white interior. You should be used to riding in cars like this given your brother’s vehicular snobbery, but a car this nice makes you constantly double check that everything you’ve touched while inside it isn’t smeared with some inexplicable manner of dirt. You slide into the leather, hissing a little because it’s hot on your exposed arms and upper back (you hate leather seats for that reason), closing the door carefully behind you. You run your eyes over the luxe interior a little enviously. You’d love to own a car this nice, but given that you live where you do, your vehicle of choice tends to run toward SUVs or trucks. The last car you’d owned had been blown up—

 _Nope._ You do a mental barrel roll away from that thought, instead reaching out a hand to hover near the color touchscreen (9-inch) in the center console before letting your fingers drift over the dash. You see no reason why you couldn’t buy a car like this. You could really only drive it from March to September, though, because winter, so you’d have to find a place to store it for the rest of the year—

Your hand stops abruptly. Your fingers twitch. You’re staring at the glove box, where the 86 badge _should_ be. Where it was earlier. Where it was on the last date. Except that right now, what’s confronting you is the Autobot insignia, unmistakable and glinting in the sunlight. 

A lump the size of your fist is forming in your throat. You’re pissed and a little afraid because you don’t know this Autobot. You’re more pissed, though, because while you knew the Autobots would be keeping an eye on you for the rest of your pathetically short life you thought they’d know better than to intrude on personal occasions, like a _fucking date!_

You speak through teeth clenched so tightly that your jaw aches. _“What the actual fuck?”_

A beat of silence, and then a voice you haven’t heard in a very long time: “Calm down. I’m not here to ruin the vibe.”

 _Knock Out._ You make a garbled sound, an unhappy laugh knotted with incomprehensible expletives. 

“You need to relax, Earthling. Frothing with rage isn’t a good look on you. Whatever will dear Caleb think?”

Your hand flies to the door handle. It locks immediately, and in doing so brings back an unwelcome surge of memory from the time when Knock Out himself had kidnapped you in order to bait Ultra Magnus. You can feel your pulse thrumming in your ears and while you’re still afloat in a sea of fury, panic is also setting in. 

“Let. Me. Out.”

“Why? So you can run and make a scene? How will you explain that to your date? Just sit back and relax. I’m not here to do anything other than keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t _need_ supervision!”

“Past events would indicate otherwise.”

You spit out your retort, your voice as ugly as it’s ever been. “Fuck you.”

He laughs. It fills the cabin, disturbingly familiar and irritatingly blithe. “I forgot just how charming you could be.” You’re about to start hammering on the window but he interjects just as your raise your arm. “Here he comes. Try to behave.”

He has rendered you apoplectic. All you can think of doing is putting your fist through the window and it’s only when the driver’s side door opens that you’re able to slowly lower your hand. 

“Strawberry sundae,” Caleb announces cheerfully, handing the plastic container to you. You accept, watching out of the corner of your eye as the Autobot insignia swiftly reforms itself into the 86 badge. “Thanks!” you chirp, and inwardly wince at how artificial your voice sounds. You lean back against the seat, toying with the red spoon as a deliciously spiteful idea begins to take form. 

“Hey, let’s take a drive,” you say. Caleb looks at you askance, spoon in mouth, one brow raised. “Show me the sights of Woodrill. Wow me.”

“I mean, it’s _Woodrill,”_ he says dryly, but humors you anyway, setting his sundae down in the cup holder before inserting the key and turning. The engine roars to life aggressively; Knock Out is showing off now that the ruse is over. Fucker. Caleb stares at the steering wheel in confusion, but as the engine resumes it’s normal purring RPM he shrugs and puts it into reverse. You’re still shaken, of course, and angered beyond belief that Knock Out would be this audacious (although not all that surprised), but you’re going to get your revenge, even if it’s a sad, petty little revenge. So you proceed to act as though nothing is wrong, engaging in banter, all the while seething. Caleb drives like your brother does: assertively. Very assertively, and it plays directly into your plan. You’re able to act as the car swiftly approaches a yellow light and then turns red; Caleb hits the brakes hard, you’re jerked forward, and you clumsily let the sundae fly from your hands to spatter all over the dash and floor. 

The engine stutters. You bite back a malicious grin. Caleb’s eyeing the dashboard warning lights with concern and transfers his attention to you as you gasp and apologize profusely. You’re looking around frantically with something to mop up the mess, grabbing the two napkins Caleb had procured from the restaurant before attempting to wipe it all up. What you’re actually doing is smearing it around with deliberate intent, because Knock Out is as vain about his interior as he is about his exterior. 

Caleb is watching you and, bless him, seems more amused than he does upset. “It’s really all right,” he says after you apologize for the fifth time. “I’ll pull over at the Husky up ahead and we’ll get it sorted out.”

Five minutes later you’re standing outside the car, watching as Caleb cleans up the mess as best he can with a package of disposable wipes he’d bought in the gas station. You feel bad that you made unnecessary work for Caleb, though you’re still riding your vindictive high from being able to spite Knock Out. 

“I’ll pay for detailing,” you say.

“Nah. I can do it easy at home.”

“Caleb–”

“It’s really okay, ______. Promise.”

That makes you smile. Once he’s done, you both get back in the car and Caleb drives you back to the movie theatre where you’d parked your own vehicle earlier. You brace yourself for the goodbye that’s coming, knowing it’s going to be awkward no matter what, steeling yourself for the “I like you, but…” statement you’re going to have to utter. It’s gonna be really awkward considering the ice cream you’d deliberately spilled everywhere, but it needs to be done. It’d be unfair otherwise and you like him too much to let it carry on. 

“So…” he says once the car is parked beside your truck. 

“So,” you echo, wondering how to go about this. 

“Should we make this a triple?” he asks plainly, no beating around the bush. You respect him for it. _Goddamnit_ , you wish you felt even the remotest flicker of attraction for him. He’s fun. He’s smart. He’s good company. The thing is, you _would_ like to see him again just to hang out, but you suspect he’s not in this for friends—you did find each other through a dating app, after all. 

“Uh oh,” he remarks as you hesitate. “Silence is never good.”

You can feel heat rising in your face because A) this is terribly awkward and B) Knock Out is bearing silent witness to it all. And that last thought is the one to propel you to blurt, “Let’s make it a triple.”

Caleb beams. You can’t help but smile back, even though your seat belt is slowly tightening as though of its own volition. _Fuck right off,_ you think, pulling against it. Caleb reaches a hand toward your face and you notice with alarm that he’s blushing a little. “Can I—?”

 _Oh god._ You’d agreed to another date, not a kiss. You’re staring at him wide-eyed, frantically trying to find a polite way to refuse when the car, which Caleb had definitely put into park, jerks forward sharply and then stops. 

“What the fuck is wrong with this thing?” Caleb mutters, checking the gear shift to ensure that it is in fact still in park. 

Still pissed at Knock Out, you are nonetheless grateful for the opening he just provided. You say to Caleb, “Don’t know, but you better get it checked out.” He nods with a concerned frown, likely wondering just what is going on with his expensive car and how much more costly it will be to get it fixed. You excuse yourself as gracefully as you can after having spilled an ice cream sundae all over his fancy white leather interior, slipping out of the car and indulging in a little more chat as the two of you bandy forth ideas for the next date. Attending the upcoming food festival is the one you both settle on, and with a final farewell you give him a little wave before turning to your own vehicle. 

You watch from your driver’s seat as Knock Out, bearing Caleb, smoothly peels out of the parking lot. Half of you wants to call Caleb and inform him of the truth, mostly because you know it’ll cause trouble for Knock Out if he’s found out and that both Ratchet and Fowler will be downright choleric about it. The other, wiser part of you knows better than to inflict that kind of chaos on Caleb, because you know from experience just how fucked up things can become. You start your truck (a dark blue half ton Silverado, only a year old), check your phone, and make your own way out of the parking lot before choosing the quickest route out of town. The drive home normally takes about forty-five minutes if you adhere to the speed limits; you make it in just under thirty and the entire time you are so tense that a line of pain runs from the base of your skull down your neck. It’s nearly dusk by the time you pull into your driveway. You are chewing your lip for more than a few reasons, and it turns out that that anxious tic is warranted because as you pull around the final bend you see that there is a purple and gold special edition Toyota 86 parked in your yard. 

Somehow, Knock Out beat you home. 

**.x.**


	3. Hot wheels

It turns out (unsurprisingly) that you have some deeply rooted issues concerning the reappearance of a certain Autobot—and probably all Autobots (save Ratchet) in general. You assume that’s what leads you to slam down on the gas pedal rather than the brake. You experience a wave of malicious satisfaction as Knock Out transforms in a blurred rush, stumbling out of your way and narrowly avoiding a collision that would had done more than left a few mere scratches on his finish. You do hit the brakes, then, and your truck judders to a halt about two feet from one of your garden sheds. You calmly put it into park, turn it off and if your hands are shaking from a combination of fury and an apprehension you don’t quite understand, well, you’ll just pretend they aren’t.

Knock Out is displeased. He’s standing on the other side of your yard, regarding you with a scowl. His rather frantic maneuvering has left large furrows in your lawn, which makes you even angrier because it took you nearly two full summers to fix the mess the Autobots once made of your yard after installing the forward base for their energon operations there. Your eyes flick from the dark ruts in the grass to Knock Out’s face.

“Get the fuck off my lawn.”

His eyes narrow. “Ask nicely.”

“I just did.” You turn your back on him, circling around your truck with the full intent of going inside and locking the door and pretending he no longer exists. It’s a retreat and you’ll readily admit it, but you’re working at a loss here. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to talk to him. His very presence is making it extremely clear that all those problems you thought you’d worked out and gotten rid of a long time ago were actually just chilling under a rug in the corner of your mind. It actually all boils down to one awful thing: he reminds you of the past. He reminds you of Ultra Magnus.

“You’ve gotten a lot more hostile over the years,” he says from behind you. The earth shakes, informing you that he’s done as you’ve asked and moved off the grass and unfortunately, closer to you. You stop walking, knowing that he’s baiting you and hating yourself for being incapable of ignoring it.

“I’ve had a good reason,” is your response as you turn around. He’s standing several feet away, towering over you, and a faint feeling of unease crawls its way up your spine. You had forgotten what it was like, to be so close to them like this. You still hang out with Ratchet but that’s different, because he’s not really an Autobot to you anymore. He’s family. You blink at that realization, filing it away for further study at a later date.

Knock Out drops to a crouch. You backpedal without meaning to. He takes note of your reaction, tilting his head a little, his expression suddenly and unnervingly speculative. You don’t like it. “Why are you here?” you demand.

“Couldn’t exactly leave things as they were. Wouldn’t be,” and here he pauses, smiling his stupid smarmy smile, “polite.”

Your internal temperature gauge alerts you that your blood is damn near boiling. “Do you have any idea how incredibly fucking rude it was to do what you did?”

“I provided _you_ with a gorgeous set of wheels with which to cruise the town. I mean, look at me. Do you like my new colors?” He strikes a pose, preening, the sun on its descent at the perfect angle to glint off the gold accents.

He is grating on every single nerve you have. “You inserted yourself into something that was none of your goddamn business! Like, what the fuck?” Your voice is definitely at outdoor volume now.

His smile widens, because of course it does, though he does hold out a hand in a placating gesture. “You know Ratchet and Fowler are still watching over you.”

You did. You’d been informed. You’d also told them that as long as it didn’t interfere with your life, you didn’t care. It takes more effort than you like to ensure your next words are quieter, albeit still heated. “I do. We have an arrangement, or at least I _thought_ we did.”

“Well, then it should be no surprise that your decision to start looking for a mate would be something they’d monitor closely.”

 _Mate?_ “I’m not looking for—just… yes, I knew. I assumed their surveillance would be something low-key and a lot less obvious than _having an Autobot pretend to be my date’s car!”_

Knock Out responds as though you aren’t shouting at him again. “Ratchet did have something like that arranged, yes. I offered to step in and handle it.”

Now you’re mad at Ratchet, too. All you want is for life to go back to the way it was before tonight. It doesn’t escape you that you had thoughts like these once before, after first learning about the existence of Autobots and Decepticons…

“What did you do to Caleb’s real car?”

“Moved it elsewhere. Gently,” he adds, seeing your mouth open for another irate tirade. “I’ll return it later tonight. He’ll never know.”

Okay, that’s one good thing. You were worried Knock Out had pulled another trick like he had with your brother in that he’d been the car since rolling off the lot. Knock Out says, “I can see why you like him. The man _does_ have exquisite taste in automobiles.”

Your glare in the silence that follows is a withering one. He endures it without a word, one corner of his mouth pulled upward in a lazy, insolent half-smile. You are suddenly beset with the urge to just sit down and cry. You don’t, of course, but you’re alarmed by how quickly and strongly the impulse rolls over you. You shouldn’t be coming undone like this. You should be able to withstand a little conversation with the universe’s most vexing Cybertronian.

Who tried to kill you. Thrice.

Who saved Ultra Magnus.

Who is reminding you right now just how much things have changed since back then, in all the wrong ways.

“Why are you really here?” you ask, because that’s the only thing that matters. You need to know why, and once you do, he can go on his merry fucking way and fuck right off back to Cybertron.

“I’ve been dispatched to earth for the time being,” he says after a moment. His expression has hardened, no trace of amusement to be seen, but whether this is out of anger or something else, you can’t quite tell.

Even though you’ve been trying to convince yourself you don’t care, your mouth carelessly tosses out a question anyway. “Problems on Cybertron?”

“Problems everywhere,” he says, “and not enough problem solvers.”

“Do I need to be worried?,” you ask slowly, hoping that your life is not about to upended yet again due to some kind of Autobot related turmoil, “Do Jack and June and Raf?”

He shakes his head, responds firmly, “No.”

You eye him uncertainly. He’s not exactly being forthright. “So you’re on Earth because of ‘problems’, okay, fine. But w _hy_ are you _here?”_

“Boredom,” he replies, “and curiosity.” You frown. He goes on, “I wondered how you were doing. You’re never there when we return, even if the others are. Ratchet gives us updates about you but they’re always vague.”

You’re not entirely certain how to take this. Boredom you believe one hundred percent, because you’re pretty sure it’s a perpetual state of existence for Knock Out. As for curiosity—

“I’m fine,” you say, gesturing to yourself. “Still alive. Still breathing.”

“Still prickly,” he supplements with a teasing note, “Still angry.”

“If you don’t like it, feel free to leave.” And with that, you pointedly turn your back on him.

“And what if I do like it?”

Your head snaps around so quickly it hurts. Hissing a little, you lift a hand to your nape and consider him without making any effort whatsoever to mask how rankled and perplexed you are. “… What?” is all you manage.

“Would you prefer it if I was blunt?”

A simple question, but one that sets your heart to knocking unevenly in your chest for reasons you aren’t even remotely prepared to examine at the moment. You turn back around without really meaning to and you answer uneasily with: “Yeah.”

“You look good,” he comments. He’s giving you the once over, top to bottom and back again. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

He gestures to your choice of clothing. Today you’d eschewed your usual aesthetic of “comfortable but acceptable for public viewing” and gone up a tier or two. You are wearing a long sleeveless maxi dress, patterned black with blue flowers, and had actually bothered to put on jewelery for the occasion of a date with a guy you had no intention of seeing further (yeah, in retrospect your decision was maybe a little fucked up).

Knock Out flummoxes you further by saying, “I like it.”

If “WTF” were a facial expression, you’d be wearing it now. He’s watching you, leaning an elbow on his thigh and propping up his head in his hand, patiently giving you time to parse what’s just happened. Thing is, you’re not quite sure what’s just happened, because it almost seems like…

You swallow twice, open your mouth, and are capable of stringing exactly two words together. “Are you…?”

“Flirting? Expressing interest?” A pause as he shifts position. “Coming on to you?”

“… Wow…” _Wow._ This is… this is… so totally fucking unbelievable _._ Unreal. And, given your past, highly inappropriate. Isn’t it? You are reeling. You back away from him, needing to sit down, to think, to evaluate, and maybe even wake up because you sure hope this is a dream. He observes as you sink down on your deck stairs, waits a beat before he follows. He kneels, thankfully far enough away that you don’t feel cornered. You wonder if this is all a joke, some trick he’s pulling in order to get a rise out of you, but a quick look at his face reveals no trace of a smile, no mockery. He’s serious.

“Why are you…?” you start, and then shake your head before trying again. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m still human…”

“I’m aware.”

“Right. So… you’ve made it pretty clear how you feel about humans. Weak. Fleshy. Puny. Helpless. Those are all things you’ve said to me.”

“I remember.”

Incredulity has you leaning forward, peering up at him to try and understand what it is you’re certain you could never understand. “You tried to _kill_ me. Three times.”

“I did,” he readily admits, “a long time ago.”

“That’s your excuse? That it was a long time ago? Besides, five years isn’t even a blink of an eye for your kind.”

“I have no excuse. It was war and we were on opposing sides. I thought we’d buried that hatchet?”

You had. You’d never explicitly talked it out but you _had_ forgiven him. He’d risked his life to save Ultra Magnus and to aid the Autobot cause, and in doing so, had protected humanity as well. You had no doubts that he was as much as Autobot as all the others but still, there were memories the two of you shared that still tended to come to mind on your darker days. You were using that as a defense now, waving it like a flimsy sword against the behemoth that was this unanticipated, astonishing new development.

“Why?” you ask again.

He shrugs, feigning carelessness. “Why not?” You dislike that answer, and as your expression becomes stormy he says, “Things change. We all spent a lot of time here, integrating and learning and observing. I didn’t like this planet or its inhabitants at all when we first arrived, but—” a calculated pause and a contemplative narrowing of his eyes, “—some of it grew on me.”

“Me.”

“You,” he confirms with a nod.

It feels like your lungs are too full while simultaneously it feels like you need air. Disorienting. Your hands are plucking at the fabric of your dress, nervous movements that you try to subdue by tucking your hands under your thighs. Knock Out is watching you too closely, too carefully. Inescapably. You want to stand and bolt up the stairs and slam the door behind you but absurdly, infuriatingly, no small part of you wants to stay and see how this unravels fully. You still kind of want to believe that he’s fucking with you, but the lack of a smirk and smartass remark on his behalf over the past few minutes proves otherwise.

“So why now?”

“I couldn’t really make a move when Ultra Magnus was still in the picture. Well, I could have, but I doubt it would have ended well for any of us. And after the two of you decided to… that wasn’t the right time either. So I waited.”

He’d given you two years for your heart to heal. _How considerate,_ you think, and hate that that thought is both wondering and bitchy. You need to choose a reaction to have to this. You need to be upset or alarmed or frightened or accepting—

You shake your head, wildly, furiously. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

“Whatever you like.” You slant him a sharp look. His smile finally manifests. “Earthling, I learned long ago that you’ll do whatever you feel like doing and if you don’t feel like doing it you’ll just become as obstinate as possible. I told you all this so that you would know. What you choose to do is entirely up to you.”

“But I’m human,” you reiterate, because it’s hard to think of anything else. “Small. Weak. Ugly.”

“Would it surprise you to know that I developed a particular fondness for the… _shapeliness_ of the human feminine form during my time here?”

“Yes,” you say flatly.

He rolls a shoulder in a shrug. “At first, yes, I was disgusted by the obvious frailties. But there’s a softness and a grace to the human body that we Cybertronians lack. And being that I’m something of an aesthete, I came to appreciate what I saw. Over time, the more I learned and the more I witnessed, that appreciation became attraction.”

“For all human women? Or just for…?”

His grin takes on a rakish edge. “Well, when I learned there were vast stores of pornography online…” You snort without meaning to. Encouraged by your reaction, he continues, “For women in general, but no matter how hard I tried—and believe me, I did—I couldn’t keep my attention from returning to you. It’s not just physical, you know—it’s a lot of little things. You amuse me. You impressed me when you left me for dead—”

That is not a chain of memories you care to relive and it must be evident, because he hastily goes on, “—and when we were on the _Nemesis._ And afterward, you made an effort to reach out to me. You were friendly even though I’d… well, you know. You might not think much of it, but considering what I’d done to you and what I’d once intended to do to you—it was considerable, Earthling. It was impressive. _You_ are impressive, though I know you’ll find a self-deprecating way to write off everything I’ve just said.”

On the verge of doing just that, you snap your mouth shut. Your face is hot, which Knock Out delightedly remarks on. “You’re blushing. I always wanted to make you blush.”

“So what do you—what do you want with all this?” You immediately realize that you’ve asked a bad question. A real bad question. You opened a door and Knock Out, true to form, barges his way in.

He leans over so that his face is all you see. His voice is suddenly very low. “Are you sure you want to know what I want?”

Your mouth goes dry. You wet your lips. Knock Out notices the movement, his crimson eyes dropping to your mouth momentarily. You experience a giddy surge that you shouldn’t be feeling, that carefree rush that comes from being admired, from being _wanted._ You need to get ahead of this. You need to slow this crazy train down.

You don’t.

“Are you suggesting that we…?” You sound a lot breathier than you’d like.

“I’m suggesting we fuck.”

Your breath escapes your lips in a startled, embarrassed little gasp and he likes it, he does, because the sound of his fans suddenly becomes audible. His smile is so smug and self-assured that you’d slap it off his face if you weren’t currently drowning under the weight of everything you’ve heard in the last twenty minutes.

“We don’t have to start there,” he says, “though I wouldn’t complain if we did.”

“We’re not.” you rap out.

“Hmm, the lady requires romance. I can oblige.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“So what you are you saying?”

You stare at him. He smiles down at you. You haven’t said no. You should say no, but you haven’t said no. _Why aren’t you saying no?_

“This is… this is a _lot,”_ you tell him.

He tips his head forward, acknowledging your point. “I know, which is why I’m just going to tell you to think about what I’ve said. Or don’t. It is entirely up to you.” And with that he straightens, rising to his feet. The sudden distance between the two of you has you silently inhaling in relief and a bunch of other things, courtesy of the Autobot standing before you. He says, “If I’m needed,” and there’s no mistaking the emphasis he puts on that word, “you can contact me the same way you do Ratchet. I’ll be stationed at the base for the foreseeable future.”

You nod your understanding, and after flashing you a final grin, he turns and begins to walk away, shaking the ground the way he’s just shaken your existence. You call after him, “What about Caleb?”

He half-turns to look at you over his shoulder. “What about him?”

“Please leave him alone.”

“I won’t lay a finger on him. But will you?”

There’s a challenge in that question. You rise to it, lifting your chin. “What if I do?”

The look he gives you is a knowing one. “You could, but you won’t. You don’t like him that way.”

You can’t think of a witty retort, so instead you issue a command. “Put his car back and don’t damage it.”

“As you will,” he says, twisting around in a parody of a bow. It gets a smile out of you, damn it, and you know he noticed. You watch as he moves a little further away before transforming, watch as he accelerates out of your driveway, watch the way the setting sun reflects off the contours of his sleek silhouette. You watch because you know he wants you to, but you pretend that’s not the reason at all. When he’s gone you remain where you are, staring at the ground and thinking hard. There’s a pattern emerging in your life wherein you just do your thing and then Fate bludgeons you with a wrecking ball of chaos. That’s what you’re feeling right now—chaos. You’re feeling fear and anxiety and fascination and excitement. Excitement is what has your flesh still dotted with goosebumps, has your heart still racing. No small part of you wants what Knock Out offered. Sex with a Cybertronian is matchless; you know from experience. But it’s _Knock Out—_ Autobot and subordinate (still, you assume) of your former lover. It’s Knock Out and you’re just you, and he—

Well, he wants to fuck you.

You huff a tired sigh and run your hand over your face. Of everything you’re thinking right now, there’s one clamoring for your attention: all thoughts of Ultra Magnus had vanished at some point during your discussion with Knock Out, and along with them the related feelings of sorrow and regret. Maybe Knock Out’s offering more than he realizes. Maybe he’s offering some things you _do_ need.

“Fuck,” you mutter feeling drained and helpless and also weirdly energized. You get to your feet. All you want to do now is go inside and have a bath and sleep but you know that there’s no fucking way you’ll be getting any rest. No, you’ve got way too much fantasy fuel for that.

**.x.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this wasn't going to have a burn, but it turns out I'm incapable of writing anything remotely romantic or sexual without a burn so... sorry, not sorry, but there's a lil bit of burn up in here.
> 
> As always, thank you to all you beautiful people who keep on reading.


	4. Probably Bad Omens

  
Life goes on as it usually does after Knock Out dropped his verbal bomb, aside from the fact that you have a lot more to think about than usual. You’ve actively tried to improve your coping mechanisms after the past few years and so, while you are tempted to pretend that Knock Out has not suggested what he actually suggested, you decide it would be better to think about it. Mull it over. Contemplate. Tear your hair out. You know, the standard ways of coping. You’re able to stay busy enough in the weeks that follow because it is summer and there are always things to do, including almost two weeks spent on a lake in British Columbia on a rented houseboat you share with your brother and some of his friends. After that you return home and prepare for a small book signing to take place in Woodrill. Being self-published means that the task of arranging one lands on your shoulders, which is why you hire a freelance publicist to set it all up instead. The book store is small, the turn out large enough to satisfy, and you’re able to leave secure in the knowledge that you won’t have to do another one for a while. 

Three days after your encounter with Knock Out, you reached out to Caleb to tell him the truth of how you feel. You were tempted to do it over text, but you didn’t because he deserved better considering the ice cream fiasco. He was disappointed yet gracious and you were left wondering if you didn’t deserve worse. He offered to be your horror movie buddy in the future and when you said you’d take him up on it, you meant it. 

It’s nearing the middle of July now, and you’ve just gotten off the phone with June. She’s issued you an invitation to Raf’s upcoming birthday. It seems incredible to you that the short, bespectacled kid you’d met five years ago is now turning seventeen. It makes you feel old, if you’re being honest. This isn’t so much a party as it is a gathering of family (seventeen is too old for a party, June had been informed), and you are both honored and amused to be considered family. You’re also nervous, as the 'gathering' will be taking place at June’s in Jasper. Which means you need to travel to Nevada, something you have not done for two years. You’ll never admit it, but you are seriously considering just flying down there in order to avoid setting foot in the base. In keeping with your resolution to try to cope like an adult, you convince yourself that two years is an adequate amount of time to heal from emotional wounds and that seeing the base again won’t kill you. It’ll probably hurt, but it won’t kill you. But there’s also that one other Big Thing you probably won’t be able to avoid: Knock Out. Being as he’s been reassigned to Earth, there’s a chance you’ll see him upon bridging to the base. Thinking about Knock Out does unsettling things to your nerves, so you don’t. Instead, after forty minutes of intense deliberation, you text June back and inform her that yes, you will be attending four days hence. 

Those four days pass very quickly and before you know it, it’s Friday afternoon and you are striding through the ground bridge. Ratchet awaits you on the other side, as he’s your ride to June’s. Five years ago he would have told you to hitchhike, but he was the one that offered his taxi services this time and you weren’t going to refuse. Time changes so much, you muse, trying to keep your breathing calm as the inside of the base becomes visible. When you do step out of the bridge and it _whooshes_ shut behind you, you are assailed by memories as you look around the cavernous space. So much transpired here, mostly good, but some of it bad. Some of it very bad. Ratchet is standing near the ground bridge controls, watching you carefully.

“I’m all right,” you tell him. 

“I knew you would be,” is his response. You smile gratefully; Ratchet’s words of support come more frequently these days, but they still mean a great deal.

“You have a gift for Rafael?” he inquires as he approaches. 

“Money. He can buy whatever he wants that way. You?”

“Rafael has been expressing interest in learning more about Cybertronian history and culture. I’ve spent the past few orbital cycles compiling a document dataset in tablet form that he can carry with him wherever he goes.”

“That’s a very thoughtful gift, Ratchet.”

He bobs his head. “And a time-consuming one to create, but I believe he’ll appreciate it.”

“Of course he will.”  
  
“I’ll be ready to leave momentarily. I need to finish up my entries for the day.” He gestures to the large bank of screens and near the ground bridge controls. 

“Take your time.” For lack of anything else to do, you trail after him, hands in your pockets, taking another sweeping look around. Your mind’s eye fills in the empty spaces with recollections of the Autobots: Bumblebee and Bulkhead tossing the scrap metal ball, Optimus standing next to Ratchet, Arcee keeping a watchful eye over the potentially hazardous ball game, Smokescreen shouting out encouragement to rival that of the most rabid of sports fans, and Ultra Magnus— 

“So…” you blurt out suddenly in an attempt to abort your brain’s efforts to hurt you.

Ratchet, fingers splayed in standard typing position, looks down at you with one brow plate raised. “Yes?”

“Uh… Knock Out?”

Ratchet’s expression alters momentarily, and while you can’t identify that fleeting glimpse, you know that it lands somewhere between irritation and exasperation. His eyes return to the bank of screens as he begins to type and you think maybe he won’t answer you, but then he does. “What about him?”

“Must be nice to have another bot around again?”

His blue eyes flick to you for just a second. He says, “Why don’t you ask what it is you really want to ask?”

Ah, Ratchet. Never one for preamble. Okay then. “Why is he here and why did you send him to check up on me while I was _on a date?”_

“He has been reassigned,” is the answer you predicted you’d get. “And I didn’t send him—he volunteered.”

“You do know he disguised himself as my date’s car?”

“No,” Ratchet responds after a few moments and there is a little wobble in his voice that you think might be caused by mirth, “I did not.”

“It wasn’t funny, Ratchet!”

“I’m certain it wasn’t.” Definitely a wobble there, which annoys you more than a bit. 

“His presence wasn’t exactly conducive to a good time, you know. And besides, it was kind of… creepy. I know you and Fowler keep an eye on me, but I’d prefer it if the observation happened in a much less obvious manner.”

“He was only supposed to follow you, though I’m not surprised by his antics. I’m sorry your date went poorly as a result. From now on we will adhere to the standard methods of surveillance.” 

In truth, you’d actually like to argue against having to be surveilled entirely, but you’ve gone down that road more than once in the past and it’s gotten you exactly nowhere. You suppose you should be grateful, because having someone looking out for you is something that most people don’t get, but it still rankles from time to time for reasons you’re not entirely clear on. “Thank you. I would appreciate it.”

He nods and continues typing. You take a few steps to the wall and lean back against it, folding your arms and trying to keep your attention from wandering in the direction of memories. Ratchet surprises you by asking, “Will you be seeing this human again?” He asks it in a conversational tone, but given that he loathes making small talk, you understand that there is a deeper inquiry masked within the first.

“No.”

Another pause in typing, another raised brow plate. You shrug. “Chemistry wasn’t there.” 

“Knock Out had nothing to do with this decision?”

For an instant you panic, thinking that he knows about the post date _conversation_ you had with Knock Out, but then you realize he’s referring to the ‘being disguised as your date’s car’ thing. “Uh… no? No. I just… didn’t feel it.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. I think so. He’s a nice guy.”

“But not nice enough?”

“Kindness is definitely a good thing, but it’s not the only thing to look for. I like him and honestly I’d love to have him for a friend but in terms of romance it’s just…” you trail off and shrug. 

Ratchet studies you for a few moments longer before resuming typing. He says, “And your decision not to pursue him romantically has nothing to do with Ultra Magnus?”

 _Goddamnit, Ratchet._ “It does not,” you reply firmly, not bothering to disguise your ire. 

“Are you absolutely certain?”

You make a sound, an aggravated humming, and direct your glare upward. “Yes. I am absolutely certain.”

Ratchet is infuriatingly good at ignoring bad moods, particularly when they are aimed at him. It would not be out of character for him to simply pretend that this discussion is over, but he surprises you yet again by letting his hands fall away from the keyboard and slowly dropping to one knee. With one arm draped over his thigh he leans down until you’re face to face. 

“We have been concerned about you,” he says, and you know ‘we’ includes himself and June. _“I_ have been concerned.”

“I know that.”

“What happened between you and Ultra Magnus—” 

“Is over. Done. No longer relevant.”

“Except that it is, in some ways.” You open your mouth to argue and he gives a quick little shake of his head. “You know it is, Earthling. This is the first time you have returned here since and it’s obvious that you have done so reluctantly. You want nothing to do with the other Autobots and if I hadn’t made the decision to stay here, I know the same would apply to me as well.”

 _That’s not true,_ you want to say, except that you can’t because it is. 

“Optimus considers you family. We all do, and not simply because of your involvement with Ultra Magnus. They have asked about you, all of them, multiple times, every time they return. They want to see you.”

You’re shaking your head without really realizing it. Ratchet goes on. “I understand that what you went through was painful beyond my ability to comprehend. Humans are far more vulnerable to power of emotions than we tend to be, and that’s why I have said nothing up until now. Well,” he adds with a small, fond smile, “June is also a part of the reason. She advised me you needed time and space.”

“She was right,” you mutter.

“I know. But it has taken two of Earth’s stellar cycles to even get you here and I don’t wish it to be another two before you return.”

“Ratchet,” is all you manage before your eyes fill with tears. You fight them back, blinking furiously, knowing that if you start to cry he will revert back to the grumpy self he’d been all those years ago. In an attempt at injecting some levity, you ask, “Are you saying you missed me?”

“You are _family,”_ he repeats. 

You duck your head with the pretense of scratching at the back of your head so he can’t see your watery eyes. “Well, _maybe,”_ you say, gratified that your voice is even, “I can start visiting again.”

“June and the boys would like that,” he says, lifting a finger to pat you gently on the arm. 

“And you?” you ask as he rises to his feet to resume his duties. 

“I would not be disagreeable,” he replies, and it makes you grin to hear the nearly imperceptible teasing note in his voice. Something in your chest eases, a knot of built up tension and resentment you’d been carrying with you for a long time, a knot that had grown tighter the moment you’d stepped through the ground bridge today. Ratchet has, in his own particular way, given you some peace of mind. As he finishes his task you remain silent until he gives one final tap at the huge green Cybertronian keyboard and steps back. “Are you ready?” he asks. 

You open your mouth to voice an affirmation but the sound of an approaching vehicle filters in from the entrance tunnel. Even if there were more than two Autobots stationed here you would know how it was by the sound of the engine. Both you and Ratchet turn to watch as Knock Out speeds out of the tunnel, still disguised as an 86. You are determined to be nonchalant and unreadable during the exchange that is undoubtedly about to transpire, but that resolution flies out the window as soon as your eyes comprehend the long, ragged furrows scoring Knock Out’s side. He transforms and it is not fluid and swift as it usually is. It is clearly a painful process and once it’s done he lurches to the left and sags against the nearest wall. There’s another wicked looking gash bisecting the right side of his face and that eye is flickering. 

“Ran into some trouble,” he says weakly, eyes flicking from Ratchet to you and back again. 

Ratchet quickly goes to him, sliding an arm around his back in order to help him stand. Together they make their way to the lab and you watch them go, wondering just what the fuck has happened. Upon the restoration of the Omega Lock, all Cybertronians had left Earth. Ratchet had done numerous global scans to ascertain that was so. Some of the Decepticons had even formed a tenuous truce with the Autobots in order to further the reconstruction of Cybertron, so your brain can’t help but form some seriously depressing scenarios to account for Knock Out’s current state. Once Knock Out is laid out in the lab Ratchet turns to look back at you. His expression is grim. 

“I’ll call June,” you say. He nods and returns his focus to his patient. 

You do as you said you’d do, calling June and informing her of the situation. She voices the same questions you’ve got, but the answers will have to wait until Ratchet’s free to talk. She tells you she’ll be there as soon as she can, and after the call is over you cast a concerned glance over to the lab to see Ratchet bent over Knock Out’s supine form, one of his medical instruments in hand. You cross the floor to the stairs leading to the mezzanine. Each footstep you take up them clangs against the metal, a sound that plucks at the strings of recollection. There are too many memories here. At the top you look around and conversations echo back to you, words said, actions performed, looks exchanged. That knot in your chest has tightened back up. Sometimes places are painful. You take a seat on the couch and strain to hear the conversation transpiring between Ratchet and Knock Out, but their voices don’t carry. One thought bounces around and around in your skull, not for the first time and assuredly not for the last: just what the actual fuck happened to Knock Out?

When June arrives you nearly bolt down the stairs, eager as you are to be out of this place. You cast a glance over to the lab but Ratchet is still hard at work and so you get into June’s car without a word of farewell. As you shut the door behind you yet another wave of memories roll over you—June had been your taxi quite often back in the day. You shake it off and turn your attention to the woman who has become one of your closest friends, leaning over to give her a quick hug before she puts the car into drive. 

“So this is probably bad,” she says, waving a hand in the direction of the lab.

“Yep. Has Ratchet given any indication that something is going on?”

She shakes her head, looking mystified. “Not a single one. Whatever just happened is something new.”

Great. You had hoped—fervently, in fact—that the once perpetual trail of Bad Things that followed the Autobots had up and died after they’d restored the Omega Lock and returned to their own world. And for a while, it seemed it had. But this—well, anything capable of hurting a Cybertronian had to be a threat of substance, right? This is a churn you really don’t need your thoughts to get caught up in at the moment, so with effort you redirect them. 

“So… how’s the party?”

“Barbeque,” June corrects with an eye roll. “And it’s quiet. Just us, the way Raf wanted it. Jack and some other friends are throwing an actual party tomorrow night. You know, the kind with no adults allowed?”

“Ahh, the kind where bad decisions abound.”

“If my kid wants to keep living where he is rent free until college,” June says darkly, “there had better be an abundance of _good_ decisions.”

The rest of the drive is spent in idle chatter, discussing the boys and their plans for the future. Jack, who is now twenty, is working for the summer in order to save up for college (even though he got enough in the way of scholarships to cover most of the ride) and Raf is in his final year of high school. It’s both cool and alarming that they’ve grown up so fast, that you were there to witness a lot of it. Five years ago you’d been an introverted writer content to live your life as you had been. Now you’re still an introverted writer, but your reality has expanded far beyond what it once was and included in that expansion are June and the boys and Ratchet, falling under dual categories: friends and family. 

Stepping into June’s house is like entering a second home. It is cozy and neat and a little cluttered and a space you feel entirely comfortable in. The boys are out on the deck and as you step through the sliding glass door they line up to greet you with the swift hugs of the reserved young adult male variety. Jack is almost a foot taller than you, still lean though broader in the shoulders now. Raf has grown as well, though he’s still on the short side, still bespectacled, still quiet and observant and staggeringly intelligent. You saw them a couple months ago but it’s good to see them now here on their home turf, to chill in the Adirondack chairs with a glass of sweet tea and listen to them talk about all the things happening in their lives. The food is great (you don’t believe it’s possible to fuck up food on the grill), the cake that follows rich and delicious, and basking in the post-food glow you give Raf his gift and listen with a smile as he lists off all the parts he’s going to buy in order to build his own drone—with some Cybertronian modifications, courtesy of Ratchet. 

Later, when the boys are racing RCs around the yard (some hobbies you don’t outgrow), you and June remain on the deck. She’s leaning back in her chair, looking content, and you venture a question you’re pretty sure you know the answer to. “So… Ratchet?”

That’s all you have to say. Her mouth curves into a smile of utter satisfaction and it makes you happy to see it. “He’s good. We’re good. Very good.”

You envy her a little right now. As though sensing this, she glances over at you sidelong. Her smile fades a bit. “Sorry,” she offers.

You shake your head. “Don’t be. I’m glad you guys are wonderful. You deserve it. So does he.”

Her smile is back to full power and it’s taken on a dreamy quality. You remember that particular type of euphoria, remember the way it infused you in perpetual waves, softening in the absence of that special someone but radiating like the sun when that person was near. Your envy intensifies and with it comes that bitterness that you’ve known off and on for the past few years. You force it all aside, because you meant what you said. June deserves this happiness, Ratchet too. Just because you and Ultra Magnus were unable to make it work…

It’s just getting dark when you decide to call it a night. The boys are somewhere inside getting their video gaming fix and June offers the spare bedroom for you to stay the night but you decline. She’s had some drinks and shouldn’t drive so she insists you take her car, assuring you that Ratchet will take her to retrieve it tomorrow. After some back and forth you accept, and after a long and swaying hug you get into her car and head out of Jasper. You get to the base about twenty minutes later. The operations area is empty when you arrive, and you leave June’s car off to the side in the unofficial parking area. You stand beside it, torn on what to do—go looking for Ratchet? Wait here for him to come back? Go and check the lab to see how Knock Out is doing? Walk around through the base yelling Ratchet’s name? After a couple minutes of internal debate, curiosity gets the better of you and you hesitantly make your way across the room toward the lab, stopping abruptly when Knock Out steps out of it.

The two of you stare at each other for an uncomfortably long span of seconds. He doesn’t look great, but he’s standing upright on his own merit and his right eye isn’t flickering so you suppose that’s good. “What happened to you?” you ask eventually.

“You’ll be happier not knowing.”

You really don’t like the sound of that. “You gonna be okay?”

He nods an affirmative. “These are nothing more than flesh wounds.”

“Fucked up your finish, though.”

“Yeah.” That one word is distinctly unimpressed as his gaze drops, skimming the length of his marred body. A thought occurs to you as he does so: whoever or whatever did this knew that messing with his appearance was worse than inflicting wounds of a more serious nature.

“What did this?” you repeat. He looks at you again and his expression is indecipherable, deliberately so. Foreboding fills you, and you ask, _“Who_ did this?”

Silence, and then he gives an almost negligible shake of the head. _Don’t ask. I can’t tell._

“Knock Out—”

He forestalls you by taking two steps forward and settling into a crouch before you, the movement a little slow, a little pained. “So, how was the little party?” 

His tone is entirely conversational, a clear indicator that he will not answer your question. That bothers you even more—why wouldn’t he tell you? Don’t you, as a part of Team Autobot, have a right to know? Your eyes skim the length of him, noting the long ragged wounds that look like they’ve been left by claws on his chassis, the jagged gash that divides the right side of his face. He says, touching a finger to that last mark, “Makes me look even sexier, doesn’t it?”

You shake your head, unable to keep from smirking despite the fact that he’s clearly just had the shit kicked out of him by some nameless and presumably big Bad Thing. “It could be an improvement,” you say, tilting your head back to look at him fully. No sign of that smile yet, but there are brackets around the corner of his mouth that indicate it’ll probably manifest soon. 

In a voice that’s calculated to be low enough to give you tingles in certain areas, he asks, “Have you given any more thought to what we discussed?”

You stare up at him in mingled disbelief and amusement. “Are you really hitting on me now, just after getting your ass handed to you?”

“I can’t think of a better time, being as you’re so full of pity for me.”

You shouldn’t laugh at that, because to laugh is to encourage his behavior, but you can’t help it. “You have greatly overestimated the depth of my compassion.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so. Once upon a time you left me for dead, but today you asked if I was going to be okay.” His grin makes its appearance and damn it, the mark on his face makes it even more crooked and charming. “Seems to me like we’re making progress.”

“You keep on thinking that,” you say lightly, and then cast a quick look around. This conversation has, unsurprisingly, headed straight into dangerous territory and it’s high time you made your escape. “Where’s Ratchet?”

“Around here somewhere. Why? Hoping he’ll swoop in for the rescue?”

 _Yes._ “No. But I do need to go home.”

“I’ll open the ground bridge,” he says, and as you’re on the verge of thanking him, he continues, “in a minute. I have a question to ask first.”

“… Okay?”

“Caleb,” he says, and a frown immediately takes up residence on your features. He sees this, marks it, and leans a little closer.

“What about him?”

“Is he a fixture in your life now?”

“And if he was?”

“I’d make a remark and leave it at that… but he’s not, is he?”

You can’t hold your glare for very long. You blow your breath out long and slow. “No. But he’s interested in being friends and I’m going to take him up on it.”

“What kind of friend?”

“The kind I’ll watch horror movies with.”

 _“I_ enjoy horror movies.”

“Yes,” you say, eyes narrowing slightly. “I recall.”

“Then ditch the human and go with me instead.”

 _“I’m_ human, Knock Out.”

His voice takes on that tone again, low and smooth and dangerously intimate. “Oh, I’m aware.”

If looks could melt… well, you’d be a puddle. It shouldn’t be surprising to you that he’s turned ‘smoldering’ into an expression, but it is. What’s also surprising—and alarming, and perplexing—is just how quickly your body responds to it. You take a step backward, seeking normality by putting meager distance between the two of you, aware that you are blushing and that your heart is thumping far too loudly and quickly. “It’s not that easy,” you say. “Caleb can walk into a movie theater. You can’t.”

“No,” he agrees easily, “but there are such things as drive-ins.”

“Not where I live.”

He makes a chiding noise and extends his hand as though to touch you, or to invite you to step onto it. “There’s one not far from here that I used to frequent. Go with me.”

You take another backward step, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself as you try to think of an excuse. You’re saved the effort by Ratchet’s voice, ringing out sharply from the corridor that leads to the interior of the base. “Knock Out.”

You both turn your heads to look at the medic. He’s approaching with quick strides, his expression stern, his blue eyes darting between Knock Out’s extended hand and you. You abruptly feel ashamed, as though caught in the middle of doing something naughty and while your thoughts may have been headed into that territory, you are entirely innocent. Irritation—at yourself, at Knock Out, at Ratchet—replaces that shame. You’re entitled to feel and act however the fuck you want. 

“You should be resting,” Ratchet says as he comes to a halt before you both.

“I got tired of resting,” Knock Out replies with a lazy shrug. 

Ratchet frowns, then addresses you. “Are you ready to return?”

You nod. Knock Out says, “I was going to send her back.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I wanted to flirt with her. Drench her in my charm. Ask her out.”

You nearly choke on your astonished, mortified inhale. Your eyes are glued to Ratchet’s face, where a scowl of hurricane proportions is growing. Knock Out’s smile takes on an edge as he looks up at his fellow Autobot. He gets to his feet slowly, huffing a little at the pain he undoubtedly is experiencing with the unfolding of his limbs. “Don’t worry,” he says once he’s upright, giving you a wink. “She hasn’t said yes. Yet,” he adds with an air of certainty, tossing a challenging glance in Ratchet’s direction before turning and making his way back to the lab. 

In his absence, you steel yourself for what you’re sure is going to be some manner of censure from Ratchet. It never comes. He remains where he is, his gaze upon you an uncomfortably intense and piercing one, before he reaches to the side to activate the ground bridge. You turn and make your way toward the green-blue tunnel and the shaking of the concrete floor beneath you lets you know that he’s following. You stop before stepping into the bridge, taking a deep breath and turning to face him. He lowers himself into a crouch in order to see you better.

“Was June upset I couldn’t be there?” he asks quietly.

You blink at the unexpected question. “She’s fine,” you assure him. “I explained the situation. She understands.”

“And the boys?”

“Same.” You flap your hand in the direction of June’s parked car. “You’ll have to bring her here to pick that up tomorrow.”

Ratchet glances in the indicated direction and nods. When he returns his attention to you his expression is sober. “Did Knock Out really ask that of you?”

You could lie. Maybe— _probably_ —you should. There’s a chance Knock Out will be able to hear everything you’re saying, anyway. “Yeah,” you admit.

“This isn’t the first time.”

Ratchet has gotten better at reading human expressions and body language, considerably so, and you’d be impressed if it weren’t for the fact that right now it’s to your detriment. It’s none of his business—except that it kinda is. He’s family. He cares for you. So, you tell the truth again, “No.”

He considers you a long moment, unmoving and silent. “Be careful, Earthling,” he says finally. 

You offer up a small, tenuous, grateful smile. “I will be,” you promise. 

His nod is terse, and then he’s on his feet and it’s time to go. You turn and traverse the ground bridge and less than a minute later you’re standing on your lawn, bathed in the glow of the yard light, home sweet home. 


	5. Hurricane Drunk

Two weeks later you’re hosting a cookout for you and your neighbor, a bearded man in his 70s named Gage. In addition to living “next door” (half a kilometer away), he’s also someone you’ve known most your life, an old friend of the family, and he went out of his way to be a great neighbor in the last few years, which included taking care of your place for the better part of a year when you mysteriously decided to go find yourself in a number of vague, tropical destinations (but were in fact residing in Nevada). Gage is kind, smart, funny, and reminds in you in some ways of your dad, rest his soul, and has a bottomless appreciation for your cooking skills, even though they are to your mind mediocre at best. You make an effort to see him at least once a week now that he’s getting older, always willing to host though every now and then he decides to entertain instead. 

He’s not alone tonight. He brought his dog, a Kangal shepherd named Sheba, a gentle giant if there ever were one. She dozes at the ground at his feet, her huge head pillowed on her paws. She’s within touching distance so you do so frequently, reaching out to run your fingers through her thick fur as you talk with Gage. He’s having surgery soon, a hip replacement, which is why he’s come. 

“It won’t be for too long,” he’s telling you in his gravelly voice. “A day or two, maybe three at the most.”

“I can handle it. She’s a good dog.”

In the past year you’ve dogsat Sheba more than a couple times, usually taking her overnight. She’s an outdoor dog, accustomed to having the run of Gage’s one hundred sixty acres during all seasons, with access to a large heated barn in the winter. She’s a guardian breed, meant to safeguard sheep from wolves, which accounts for her size. Gage’s flock dwindled as he aged, and in the last couple of months he’s gotten rid of all his sheep entirely. You feel a little sorry for Sheba without having her herd to watch over, but she seems to have transitioned into her early retirement as gracefully as a dog can. 

“You sure?” He queries. “Not planning on taking off to the Maldives again?”

He often teases you about your uncharacteristic leave of absence five years ago and you don’t mind, considering how he stepped up to look after your place while you were gone. “Can’t promise anything,” you retort with a smile, skimming your fingers along Sheba’s flank, “but if I go, I’ll take her with me.”

“Over my dead body,” Gage growls with a grin.

The conversation turns then to your brother and his job, and from there to other things like books and nature. It’s dark by the time Gage gets up to go, his bones protesting loudly enough that it’s audible to you. Sheba rises when he does, giving you a single lick on the arm and following after him, patiently waiting as he slowly makes his way down your deck stairs before she descends. You trail after them, wrapping your arms around your middle to ward off the chill brought on by the midsummer night’s breeze. 

“I’ll drop her off next Monday,” Gage says as he opens the door to his truck. “I’ll bring everything you need.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

“Thanks, _______. Appreciate it.”

Your reply is a fond smile and a wave, and you watch as he hoists himself into the cab, as Sheba effortlessly jumps into the truck bed. Once they’re headed down your driveway you commence the post-dinner cleanup, and once you’re done you hop in the shower. Forty-five minutes later you’re in bed with a book in hand, thinking that you need more days like today, days spent in idle pleasure, connecting with friends and family. Days where certain parts of your past don’t dominate your every waking moment. Days when you’re able to just be a simple human living a simple human life. 

You doze off somewhere around the fourth page and decide to call it a night, setting the book on the nightstand and switching off your light, rolling onto your side. Sleep finds you easily and you’re just on the verge of succumbing when a sound pulls you back into wakefulness. You frown, blinking, and as the sound persists you roll onto your back and stare up at the ceiling. It sounds like something is running back and forth on your roof. That’s not all that unusual, as squirrels abound in this neck of the woods, but this sounds somehow different from typical squirrel foot patter. It stops suddenly, and a breath later resumes, the back and forth of many light steps. More than one squirrel, maybe? You’re about to get out of bed and head outside to try and get a look when it stops again, and this time it doesn’t resume. With a mental shrug you turn onto your side again, and it’s not long after that you’re asleep.

**.x.**

The days pass as they tend to do in the summer: far too quickly. July skips by and while you’ve made an effort to enjoy it through camping and swimming and lounging out on your deck, it still seems like you’ve missed most of it somehow. In the first week of August, June calls you to invite you for a girl’s night at her place, as Jack will be away camping with Raf. You accept her invitation eagerly, feeling a lot less troubled about returning to Nevada after last time, though there certainly is some remaining anxiety. You make plans to bridge to the base on Friday afternoon, after which an evening of entertainment with just you and June will commence.

Friday arrives. The ground bridge opens in your yard at five in the afternoon sharp. Ratchet is nothing if not punctual. Your overnight bag in hand, you step into the bridge and stride through its swirling interior, wondering what’s on the menu for the evening as you haven’t eaten all day. Something snags your attention from up ahead—Ratchet is crouching at the entrance of the ground bridge. Weird. You step out of it and you glimpse from between his legs a flurry of activity. Knock Out? The boys? But then Ratchet is ducking down toward you, his expression solemn, and you know exactly what’s going on. 

“I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice, and your stomach immediately ties itself in knots. “If I had known they were all coming I would have contacted you.”

You stare up at him because you are physically unable to look elsewhere, because your brain is already trying to spare you the pain. Ratchet raises a finger, pats you on the shoulder twice. _You can do this. You’ll be okay._ And then he stands, ceases to be the protective barrier between you and the rest of this place, stepping aside and giving you an unwanted line of sight across the operations area to where Optimus, Bumblebee, Smokescreen, and Ultra Magnus are standing. Their attention is fixed on something held in Optimus’ hands, thank fuck, but your lungs still forget how to work the moment your eyes fix on Ultra Magnus. Your heart stutters and your muscles tighten and you are suddenly assailed by the incredibly fitting lyrics of a song by Florence and the Machine, crystal clear and deafeningly loud as though you’re standing next to a speaker.

_—I brace myself, ‘cause I know it’s going to hurt—_

Ratchet is moving toward them. His approach draws the attention of Ultra Magnus, and in that fraction of a second before he notices you, you back up a step. And then it’s happening—he’s looking directly at you and you are void of all thought save for how much this fucking _hurts_. Two years and the sight of him still stops you dead, renders you immobile, strikes you mute. You are panicking and it is one of the hardest things you have ever done, to lift your chin, to nod at him, to inhale and step forward like you are still a functioning human being. Ratchet was right—you _can_ do this. Another breath and you roll your shoulders slightly, trying to loosen up so it doesn’t look like you’re just an empty shell walking. The others have taken notice of you, now, and you lift an arm in a wave and force a smile because you haven’t seen any of them in two years, either, and it’s the polite thing to do. The right thing to do. Florence’s voice is still reverberating in your head, right on cue as she belts out the next bit:

_—But I like to think at least things can’t get any worse—_

The sound of a swiftly approaching vehicle swells up through the entrance tunnel and you find yourself thinking that if a crevasse opened up in the ground right now that you would willfully leap into it to spare yourself from what’s coming. Knock Out will read the room and will behave as he always does: like an asshat. Your eyes dart to the designated makeshift parking area, hoping beyond hope that June’s car will be there but nope, it’s empty, and she told you she’d be late, you fucking idiot—

Knock Out appears, transforms, takes an earth-quaking step forward to halt his momentum. His eyes are on you, narrowed slightly, and then they flick to the other gathered Autobots. When he looks back at you, you note a softening of his expression, uncharacteristic marks of empathy bracketing his eyes. He knows you’re hurting. He knows that seeing Ultra Magnus has been the emotional equivalent of taking a sledgehammer to the face. He knows and it hurts in a different way to realize he cares, in his own bewildering way, and suddenly you are blinking very hard because it feels like you’re either going to start to cry or throw up. Maybe both. 

Something is bounding toward you and you whip your head around to see a pint-sized Bumblebee quickly approaching. He may lack the facial capabilities of other bots but his enthusiasm and excitement at seeing you transmit clearly through his movements. He reaches you a split second later, gripping you by the sides and hoisting you into the air and the laugh that escapes you then is a genuine one, startled and breathless. He swings you around in a circle before setting you down, pounding you on the shoulders with just enough force that you nearly stagger. 

“Hi, Bee,” you say with a heartfelt grin as you peer into his face. His round blue eyes are fixed on you and they are so earnest, so sincere, that you find yourself choking up. Bee adores you as part of his family, and you adored him—no, you _adore_ him, present tense. You and he bonded years ago, becoming fast friends, and you’ve stupidly denied yourself all the lighthearted effusiveness of his company for the past two years. You _missed_ him. You missed the others, too, and it’s just now dawning on you how much. You can feel your bottom lip trembling even as you smile up at Bee, even as you’re gently pushing yourself away from him. There’s too much going on, too much for you to take in, too many regrets to realize right now— 

Knock Out is standing over you both, and as you tip your head up to glance at him you see his gaze is focused across the room. You already know what he’s looking at, are helpless to keep your eyes from following the path of his own. He’s staring at Ultra Magnus, but Ultra Magnus is staring at you. From over Bee’s shoulder your gaze meets that achingly familiar blue one and it jolts you enough that you bite your lip to stop from making a sound. It takes a monumental amount of effort to turn your face aside, to break that visual connection, to continue acting like everything is normal. 

“It’s good to see you,” you quickly say to Bee, stepping up against him, bringing your arms around him in an awkward hug in an effort to try and disguise your not-so-inner turmoil. He returns your embrace without hesitation, squeezing you so tightly you squawk a protest, and now you’re feeling happy again. This constant up and down of emotion is going to wreak imminent havoc—eventually you _are_ going to start to bawl, which means you need an out. _Immediately._

Bee lets you go. You step back. Knock Out, still looming above, looks down at you and asks in a tone of deliberate, casual, flirty familiarity, loud enough to carry, “You here to take me up on my offer?”

Such a simple question. An innocuous question. A question that should matter to no one but you and he, except that the silence that falls immediately after he asks it lets you know otherwise. You are aware of several pairs of eyes alighting on you in that moment, feel their weight and it is _crushing._ You can _feel_ Ultra Magnus’ attention, heavy and inescapable. Bee, smaller in stature than the others, is regarding you with furrowed brow plates. 

“Kinda,” is your response to Knock Out, relieved to hear that your voice is steady, even, normal. You pat Bee on the arm and step away, then look up at the former Decepticon. “I need a ride to June’s.”

“It would be my pleasure,” is his response, and because he is who he is, he says this while flicking a dismissive, smug glance in Ultra Magnus’ direction. He moves away, giving himself enough room to transform. 

“Are you here for long?” you ask Bee quietly, a useless thing considering everyone in the room can hear you anyway.

Bee nods, his series of beeps still foreign to you but relaying what you need to know all the same. “Then I’ll see you soon,” you say, and when he presses both hands together, prayer-like, you add firmly, “I promise.

He believes you, gently nudges you toward Knock Out. You obey with a farewell wave that you then aim in the general direction of the other Autobots, though it falters somewhat neat the end. They all return the gesture in kind save for one, but you’re going to pretend you didn’t notice. You turn toward Knock Out, who is waiting with the passenger door open. 

As you slide in, as that door shuts on its own, you say with no small amount of warning, “Just to June’s. No games.” You look out the window to find Ultra Magnus still watching you, recognize the torn expression he bears because you know you’re wearing it too. A heartbeat passes and then he turns, facing the other Autobots as their previous discussion resumes, and freed from his gaze you suck in a deep, shaking breath. Your heart, duct-taped and glued and mended as it is, has fractured a little just through that tiny exchange, and you entreat Knock Out softly, “Please?”

“Just to June’s,” Knock Out acknowledges in a gentler voice than you’ve ever heard him use before. 

The drive there is a quick and silent one. You spend most of it trying to remember that you’re over Ultra Magnus, that you both decided to call it quits, that you’re better off without this stupid fucking hollow in your chest that makes it feel so hard to breathe. When Knock Out pulls up to the curb outside June’s house you don’t move. You remain sitting where you are, thoughts racing, until the seatbelt undoes itself on its own, slithering back into place. 

“You okay?”

“Not even a little.”

“We didn’t know they were coming.”

“I know. Ratchet said.”

A silence. You’re still sitting, not quite numb but not quite all there, either. _Pull yourself together, woman,_ you chide yourself. _It’s not that bad. Except that it is. It hurts. It sucks._

“Can I offer a suggestion?”

You shrug. Why not? “Sure.”

“Be with me.”

“I think—”

“Thinking is what you’re doing right now and it’s making you miserable.” Can’t argue that. He continues, “I’m not saying what you think I’m saying—”

“What do I think you’re saying?”

“That we should fuck.”

Your laugh is brief, disbelieving. “You’re not saying that?”

“Of course I am. But what I’m really saying is this: just _be_ with me. Hang out with me. See a movie with me. Let me woo you. I can’t make you forget about him, but I can make all of this easier.”

“Easy is exactly the opposite of what I’ll get with you.”

His chuckle flows over you, seated within his alt mode as you are, a warm and encouraging sound. “You spend too much time on thoughts like those, Earthling. I’m not asking you to take a sparkmate’s pledge—probably impossible as you don’t have a spark, but I digress—I’m just suggesting you let yourself take the fun road for once. Let yourself have a good time with me.”

“I need,” you say with a wry smile, “to think about it.”

He laughs again. You like the sound of it. And that’s when you realize that the tension has eased from your shoulders, that your breathing has slowed, that that void in your chest has closed up a little—and all of it just from speaking with him. Knock Out, pain in the ass extraordinaire as he is, is also a balm. 

“Okay,” you tell him. 

“Okay?”

“Okay. Let’s… let’s hang out.”

“Ah, Earthling, I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses.” The utter satisfaction in his tone needles you, which is undoubtedly the goal.

“Just for movies and stuff,” you state immediately.

“Clarify ‘stuff’.”

“Not fucking,” you say, and then, driven by unwise impulse, add, “at least not yet.”

Silence. There’s a sudden thrumming all around you, pulsing through you, the equivalent to his fans ramping up while he’s in alt mode. It’s an intimate sensation and one that has you flushing bright red, knowing just what he’s thinking, knowing your careless words are what delivered him here. It is past time to go, so you reach for the door latch and pull. The door remains closed.

“You should know…” Knock Out starts, and then stops. It doesn’t escape you just how throaty his voice has become. 

Your brain has decided _fuck it,_ so you present a dangerous question. “I should know what?”

“Just how good it will be. For both of us.”

Arousal, instant and unstoppable, roars through you and you twitch in the seat. He can tell—he can read your vital signs, can map out all the little indicators of your desire. Your already red face is blazing now. 

“Four stellar cycles,” he says, slowly, deliberately. “Four stellar cycles I’ve been thinking of you, wanting you, imagining you.” He lets the words hang between you, no doubt taking note of the way your heart rate is abruptly triple what it was, of the way your hands are fisted on your thighs, of how your breathing is now just a little uneven. He goes on, “Ultra Magnus is many admirable things, but he’s an idiot for cutting you loose.”

“We both agreed to it,” you say, automatically defensive on behalf of an Autobot you’re not supposed to love anymore. 

“He was wrong to.” 

“Cybertron—”

“—was dead. Is still dead, despite their efforts. It will remain dead for eons to come. Rebuilding it will take lifetimes, making it habitable even more so. It’s a generational task, but they were blinded to that fact by eagerness and hope.”

“You went back,” you remind him.

“Yeah. I was also blinded by eagerness and hope. It didn’t take long for reality to sink in.”

“But it’s your home.”

“It _was_ my home.” His tone is such that you can perfectly envision the expression he’d be wearing if he were transformed, an ancient, faded sadness. “It isn’t anymore. Not sure I want it to be. Too much has happened since then. Too much has changed.”

“Is that why you’re here? On Earth?”

“…No.” 

His notable hesitation bothers you, so you persist. “What’s the reason for that, then?”

“Not important right now.”

You make a noise of mild aggravation, because you know that whatever the reason for his return here, it most certainly isn’t good, especially considering that something attacked him not all that long ago. He laughs, enjoying his ability to rile your ire just as much as he enjoys being able to rile you in other ways. He remarks on this. “We were discussing something else.”

“I don’t recall,” you lie.

“You do,” he disagrees easily, with certainty. “You were thinking about all the ways you could impale yourself on my spike.”

It takes rare talent to be able to choke on air, and you do just that. _I was not!_ is what you should boldly claim, but it would be an untruth. “Maybe,” is what escapes your lips, and you are rewarded with a sound very much like a primal purr that rolls over you, rolls _through_ you. 

His voice drops to the lowest possible register, thick with feeling. “Are you wet right now?”

Your breath hitches in your throat. You cast about your brain frantically for the denials that you should have on hand but they’ve fled, leaving only the heady rush of being lusted after behind. This, all of _this_ —the effect he has on you, the way your body reacts—should be wrong, but it’s not. You know that. You’re an adult, unattached, capable of making up your own mind and you are undeniably drawn to Knock Out no matter how much you might wish you weren’t. Maybe you still love Ultra Magnus—absolutely you still love him in some way—but loving another doesn’t mean you have to swear off sex and affection for the rest of your life. You want what you want and there’s no shame in it, which is why you give your answer in a voice just as low and thick as his own. “Yes.”

It feels like he shudders around you, as though he’d taken a deep breath against a surge of lust. “How soon is June expecting you?”

“Soon,” you reply with genuine regret, swallowing hard. “Now.”

“Pity,” he says, “because I’d love to show you just what I can do in alt mode.”

The images that are now bombarding you are overwhelming, and for a span of a few seconds you float in anticipatory euphoria, unable to keep from squirming as endless carnal scenarios parade themselves through your mind. 

“You should go,” Knock Out says. The door at your side opens.

“You fucking dick,” you say, half-laughing, half-breathless. 

He gives an amused rumble of assent. You’re out of the car and turning to walk up the sidewalk when he speaks again. “When are we going to hang out?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“I don’t know. Depends. I’m a busy woman.”

“Tomorrow.”

“How do you know I don’t already have plans?”

“I don’t care if you do. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” you agree, making your way backward up the sidewalk. 

“Tomorrow, definitely.”

 _“Maybe.”_ You stress. “And we’re just hanging out. Not… anything else. Understood?”

“As my lady wills,” he says, and somehow manages to make mocking deference sound sexy as fuck. 

You shake your head with a smile, make a shooing gesture before turning and making your way toward June’s door. Behind you his engine revs once, twice, and then he’s off with a screech of tires, showboating for you. You’re not ashamed to say it pleases you, and you concentrate on slowing your breathing and cooling yourself down before you reach out to ring the doorbell. 

**.x.**

Your night with June is as you’d hoped and imagined: carefree and fun. You both drink (in moderation), and do very little other than talk and watch shitty romcoms and provide caustic commentary regarding said shitty romcoms. Being with June is effortless—the two of you just vibe in a good way. Several times during the evening you consider telling her about Knock Out and his proposal but you shy away from it. You’re not sure why—maybe it’s because of how exciting it is again, to be wanted by a creature so powerful, so different. Maybe it’s because you want to keep it secret, away from the world with only you and Knock Out (and Ratchet, you forgot that he knew) being aware of the powerful current of attraction between you. You’ll tell her eventually, because of course you will. But for now, right now… Knock Out and his insinuations and all references to his spike are going to remain your very, very dirty little secret. You also think about mentioning Ultra Magnus’ return but nah, fuck it. You feel too good right now to be brought down. Time enough later when you’re alone to dwell on all that weighty shit. 

A new day dawns and you spend most of it with June, cleaning up from the night before. She drives you back to base and that’s when reality intrudes, because if both Knock Out and Ultra Magnus are in the base you are very doubtful that you’ll be able to keep yourself together. Fortune favors you. The base is empty for all but Ratchet, who opens the gate for you and then turns his attention to June. You can’t really blame him for being uninterested in you when his lady love is in the same room, but you had hoped to casually probe for some information regarding the Autobots being back on Earth. And also, maybe, Knock Out’s whereabouts, because, well, it’s _tomorrow._ Maybe the former Decepticon’s absence is a blessing. Maybe it’s best you don’t see him today. You can go home, do what needs doing, and devote some time to thinking about all that’s happened in the last 24 hours, such as:

1\. The return of your former Autobot lover, who as it turns out you’re not really over, and  
2\. The fact that at some point in the near future, you’ll probably rediscover the wonders of intercourse with a Cybertronian via a different Autobot. 

At home you unpack, hit the shower, and then proceed to do all the boring chores that come with owning an acreage. If your eyes dart to the area where the ground bridge usually appears in hopes/fears that either a red or blue Autobot will walk out of it, well, you can’t really help it. Your thoughts are engaged in an endless cycle of regret and sadness and desire and excitement and by the time dinner rolls around you are mentally exhausted. You hope Ultra Magnus has gone back to Cybertron, except that you don’t. You hope you never have to see him again, hear him again, except that want to. And as for Knock Out…

Crazy to think that once upon a time in the months after your husband’s death, you’d seriously contemplated becoming a spinster.

**.x.**

You fantasize about Knock Out tonight. Unabashedly. Eagerly. With zeal. You lock all other thoughts aside and you fantasize and you orgasm and in the aftermath, as you lay panting and tangled in your sheets, you realize that this _is_ okay. It is. You’re a healthy adult woman and there’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing, but thinking that doesn’t erase the little barbs of guilt and shame that have their hooks in you. Thinking it doesn’t remove the heartache you felt yesterday, seeing Ultra Magnus again. It doesn’t fix what’s still broken, but maybe it will, in time. Maybe it will. 

You sleep deeply right up until you don’t. You wake in the dead of night, needing to pee, needing a drink, and roll out of bed bleary eyed. A glance at the clock reveals its just after three and you pad tiredly into the bathroom to do your business, and after washing your hands you head for the kitchen. After you’ve gotten your drink you turn and there’s something not quite right about the view outside your glass doors. Something is off. You narrow your eyes, thinking that maybe it’s a deer—they quite like your yard at night. But no, there’s nothing definite out there, and it’s a moonless night, and your motion activated yard light hasn’t gone off, so maybe you’re just imagining things?

You blink and yawn. Turn and begin to head back to your room. But then your head snaps around and you’re staring wide-eyed out the glass doors as every hair on your arms stands on end.

Outside, in the dark, glowing purple eyes are staring back. 

**.x.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. 
> 
> For those interested, I've also been updating my [Dreadwing/Reader](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315148/chapters/50760289) fic. 
> 
> If you're still reading, thanks for sticking around.


	6. Makeshift and unwind

_“Something’s out there.”_ — Your brain, always helpful, stating the super obvious in times of terror.

Except maybe you need to cut the old gray matter some slack, because the purple orbs shining like eldritch beacons in the night disappear instantly, before you can even be certain you’ve seen them. Except you had, right?

You slowly begin backing toward your room, eyes still fixed on the glass doors, struggling to shape the blackness without into something recognizable. An old, familiar panic is constricting your lungs, the same you’d felt during the numerous occasions Knock Out had attempted to off you. You try to remain calm, to reassert a logical line of reasoning. After the events on board the _Nemesis,_ your status as “friend of the Autobots” had earned you a property upgrade in the form of a defensive system. Back when Operation Energon had been operating out of the middle of your yard, a rudimentary Cybertronian security system had been put in place: automated turrets set to activate if any of the perimeter sensors detected Decepticon biosignatures. Since then, more turrets had been added, skillfully hidden from view, if the sensors were tripped an alarm would also activate immediately, pinging the Autobot base for aid. The sensors had been upgraded as well, set to detect any potentially hostile form of life in addition to Decepticon biosignatures. Ratchet, bless him, had taken things a step further by giving you the equivalent of a home security app on your phone. One press of your finger and he would be notified instantly that something was amiss.

_So,_ you think to yourself now, straining your eyes as you stare out into the dark, _there’s nothing out there_. The alarm hasn’t triggered. The yard light isn’t on. The turrets aren’t firing. Ratchet performs maintenance checks on the security system every few months, diligent as he is. _If_ something was lurking out there, something deadly, something bad, the ground bridge would already be open. Right?

“Right,” you whisper to yourself. You’re being stupid. Jumpy. Typical human anxiety, as Ratchet would have said back in the day. This isn’t the first time your imagination has run away with you in a detrimental manner; after surviving the excursion aboard the Decepticon flagship, you’d seen red eyes more times in the dark than you were willing to admit. So maybe all this drama with the returning Autobots has stirred up additional old wounds. You stop moving, and after several moments of internal encouragement, you walk forward, toward the glass doors. You open them quietly, holding your breath as you do so, and cautiously step out onto your deck. The motion detectors catch the movement and your yard is flooded with light. It’s empty. The only sound is that of the wind through the leaves of the surrounding trees. You remain standing there for long minutes, listening, looking. The only thing you find is the calm of the dead of night.

Minutes later you are back in bed, all doors securely locked. You lay on your back, staring upward, and feel a little ashamed that upon your return you plugged in your little star-shaped night light. The image of those purple eyes is cemented in your mind, a brief candescent flicker that has you fidgeting nervously just to think of it. Your faith in Ratchet and Cybertronian technology trumps what is likely just a case of nerves, however, and you are able (eventually) to drift off into a restless sleep.

**.x.**

It’s Sunday and you have no plans aside from thinking conflicting thoughts regarding Autobots. You don’t want to spend the day thinking. You want to do something relaxing, fun, mindless.

You go swimming.

The small local lake has not changed much over the years. Still private property of an absentee landowner, still the place you come when you need sorting out. Teens from a neighboring farm have discovered the lake and its secluded awesomeness, which means that sometimes you have to share. You’re okay with that, though — they seem like a decent bunch, two girls and their younger brother, and you’ve gotten on friendly terms with them during your numerous swimming outings. You’re not surprised to see their dad’s old, battered farm truck parked near the dilapidated wire fence and park yours next to it. You pull out your long, blue pool float (pre-inflated at the house, shoved in the back seat for easy hauling), toss it carefully over the fence, duck through the two loose wires on top, and take the beaten path through the bush down to the lake. The small sandy expanse that qualifies as a beach is littered with towels, discarded clothing, flip-flops, and one pair of sunglasses, and the teens themselves are out fairly far out with their own floats.

“________!” shouts one of them upon seeing you, and you lift your hand in a wave. You strip down to your bathing suit, which is a plain blue one piece, place the bag carrying your towel, clothes, truck keys, and phone down next to your flip flops, and wade out into the water with your float in tow. The lake is shockingly cool on account of it being as deep as it is, but you know from experience that it only takes a few minutes for everything to normalize. Leaning your arms on the float you begin to swim, slowly kicking your way across the lake until the water is well over your head. You don’t venture too far—the shore’s still within quick reach— and then you clumsily climb up onto the float, roll onto your back, and commence with utter relaxation.

People find serenity in different ways. This is one of yours. Just you and the welcome heat of midday, almost on the brink of being too hot. The sound of the neighbor kids playing isn’t too loud and you wouldn’t mind anyway if it was—it’s nice to hear them having fun. Sometimes on days like this you join them in their antics, but today you just feel like floating. So you do. It takes not long at all for you to doze off, rousing every now and then to ward off an inquisitive dragonfly or hornet. When the kids leave you wake enough to wave goodbye and watch as they gather all their gear and head up the path, their floats bouncing along behind them. When they’re gone you’re granted almost complete stillness, broken only by the gentle lapping of the water and the birdsong from the surrounding forest. You wish you could bottle this experience, uncork it again when you need a measure of tranquility.

You wake again, stir slowly, made lethargic from the warmth of the sun and the lazy satisfaction of your indolence. You sit up, trailing one leg in the water, glance around blearily to see that the lake is still empty and that you’ve drifted closer to the middle. You’ve no idea the time, but it feels like at least a couple of hours have passed. You’ve got nothing but more time to spend here and you’ve just resolved to settle in for another floating nap when a glinting from the shore captures your attention. Even with sunglasses you have to shield your eyes in order to search out the origin. The gleam belongs to a mass-displaced Knock Out, the sun setting his gold trim alight as he descends toward the water. The sight of him infuses you with that particular giddiness that accompanies attraction, and, as usual, a little bit of nervousness.

He comes to a halt at the water’s edge. Cybertronians aren’t very buoyant as a rule, and you’re willing to bet the same applies even when a smaller size. You slip off the float, drape your top half over it, and kick your way toward shore. In the minutes it takes to get there, you replay your last conversation with Knock Out and feel your anticipation levels begin to skyrocket. You’d told him you wanted to hang out. You’d also been explicit that hanging out would entail, well, nothing explicit. Regardless, he is a gorgeous Cybetronian specimen that has openly admitted his lust for you, and you feel much the same for him, so even if your brain has decided to make the safe, rational choice, your body is rebelling. The things you two could do to each other…

You come to a halt before reaching land. You’re able to touch the lakebed, barely, by standing on tiptoe. “I didn’t take you for a swimmer,” is your opener.

“Don’t really care for water,” is his reply, though he does stride forward, stopping when the water is lining his knee equivalents.

“Taking advantage of the tracking thing Ratchet put in my phone?”

His shrug is one of affected indifference. “Just checking in. You _do_ have a tendency to find trouble.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” you say breezily and then, with feigned casualness, “Is that the only reason you’re here?”

He smiles. “You know it’s not.”

You decide to play along. You don’t bother moving any closer to him. Instead you try to hop up on the float as gracefully as you can. Once seated, you twist around so you’re sitting facing him, legs dangling in the water. This is partial coyness, but also caution—you’re using the water as a buffer, as a test. A part of you issues a warning: _play stupid games…_

“I’m here for what I’m owed,” he says, head turning as he surveys the area. You remain silent, but lift a brow. His gaze returns to you. “Hang out time, remember?”

“As I recall it, that was supposed to be yesterday.”

“I should have—”

“Doesn’t matter,” you interrupt, shrugging.

He’s silent, regarding you, likely trying to puzzle out if you’re being genuine or not. You are. You understand that his duties as an Autobot take precedence over everything else. It had been the same with Ultra Magnus.

He’s moving closer with slow strides and you watch as the water ripples around him. The nearer he gets the more aware you become of the situation, that the two of you are very alone and secluded here, that you are wearing little in the way of clothing, that he’s wearing that expression as he looks at you that makes your heart pound. When he reaches you he is submerged up to his chest and he lifts his hands, settles them on the float on either side of you. Caging you. You suck in a deep, silent breath through your nostrils and try to focus on appearing completely confident instead of nervous and fidgety.

“I _am_ sorry,” he tells you, expression serious, his tone anything but. “Optimus issued orders. Like the good soldier I am, I obeyed.”

“I’m not upset.”

He tilts his head a little, squinting as he studies your face. “I believe you,” he says after a few moments.

“I’m relieved.”

“So this is what you do with your days?” He indicates the expanse of the lake with a sweeping thrust of his chin.

“Some of my days. I’m not always lazy as fuck.”

“So you’re not always dressed like… this?”

“Uh,” is your soft response. His eyes haven’t left yours but you are suddenly, blazingly aware of yourself, of every exposed curve and hollow of your body, of how much he appreciates them all. You remember you have a mouth eventually, rally yourself with an attempt at wit. “…No. Not really practical for everyday use.”

“Shame,” he says. He leans in closer and you catch your breath. He notices, one corner of his mouth edging upward. “So…”

You ask breathily, “So?”

“So. We need to get going if we’re going to make the movie on time.”

You blink. He grins. “Fucker,” you mutter, slapping the water and sending up a spray that hits him in the face. He shakes his head even though it’s a less than minor bother, spattering you with droplets. Gripping the float with one hand, he turns and begins towing you toward shore.

You’re so caught up in the past few moments of expectation that you’re not able to keep your thoughts to yourself. “I thought we were gonna… ”

He halts, cranes his head to look over his shoulder at you, jokingly inquisitive. “Gonna what?”

Your slap more water in his direction. “Tease.”

“Am I?” He spins back around, reassuming the stance he’d had before, this time close enough that your legs bump against him. He places a hand on each of your knees, watching your reaction carefully. Internally, you are a shuddering mess. Externally, well—you swallow hard, your eyes on his, and let him slowly push your thighs apart. He moves closer, close enough that you could wrap your legs around him if you wanted to. You do want to. Very much. But you wait, because you are still uncertain, because you are a little afraid of the unknown, because you are human and vulnerable and insecure. His fingers are cool against your sunbathed flesh, cool enough to elicit a little squeak from you as they begin to trail gently up the lengths of your inner thighs.

He repeats his question, calm, soft, “Am I?”

There’s no point trying to pretend you are unaffected by, well, everything about him, so you don’t. This is what he likes about you, after all—that you are not like him. Human. So you make no effort to slow your breathing, or stop from biting your lip when his touch ghosts the apex of your thighs for just a fraction of a heartbeat before reversing its course. You remember then that he’s waiting for an answer, give him one that is scarcely more than a whisper. “Yes.”

His smile is small, just the faintest curve of the lips, but for some reason it’s even sexier than the full blown shit-eating smirk he usually wears. One hand leaves your leg, lifts to push your sunglasses up your brow until they’re resting on your head. You feel even more exposed now, undefended against his steady crimson gaze. The hand he’d touched your sunglasses with drifts downward, one finger tracing a path along your brow, cheek, and you tilt your head to allow him easier access to the sensitive column of your neck. The cool, unyielding metal of his hand settles on your shoulder, brushing aside the strap of your swimsuit and your gaze drops to watch as he slides it down your shoulder, to see the contrast between the thin line of lighter skin against the rest of your tanned shoulder. He seems fixated by this, such a small thing, running his thumb up and then down its length. Your swimsuit strap, loosened, slips further, revealing the untanned swell of your breast. Your skin tingles there, anticipating his touch; he acquiesces to your wordless wish, skimming fingertips downward in an experimental voyage, watching you closely to capture your reaction. You know all the little _human_ details are what he craves, what he wants: the throb of your pulse in your neck, the dilation of your pupils, the increased rise and fall of your chest as wanton excitement trickles over you. 

He draws nearer, using his free hand to reach behind you and grip the float, tugging it closer until your thighs are framing him. The water and the float give you the height advantage here, though not by much, and you’re already lowering your head toward his when he resumes where he left off, brushing aside the clingy wetness of your swimsuit to gain full access to your breast. Your lips are on his, opened in a sharp inhale as a metal thumb drags over your nipple, and his tongue slides sinuously against yours. He kisses just the way you thought he would, confident and without hesitation, utilizing variation in the form of nibbles and licks to ensure that you grow increasingly excited. You lock your legs around him and he lets go of the float, reaching up to thread his fingers through your hair, to gently pull your head to the side. His mouth is on your neck, sucking, and you bleat out a sound of pure _need_ that you’re too far gone to feel self conscious about. His other hand leaves your breast, flattening and gliding downward, peeling your swimsuit along with it. You assist, shoving off the other strap and then catching his face between your hands so that you can launch your own assault. For a span of moments it’s just this, your mouth ravaging his, and you are blissfully unaware of anything except how good this feels, to be _wanted_ this way again, to see that heat in another’s eyes when they look at you—

—except, for a splinter of a second, your brain insists on seeing blue eyes overlaying these shining crimson ones, insists on hearing a deeper voice softly saying your name. You falter, drawing away from Knock Out, and a single searching look at your face reveals everything to him.

“Tell me what to do,” he says, a rasping edge on every syllable. His hand is splayed against the flat of your stomach and he carefully disentangles the other from your hair before cupping your cheek with it, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip.

There’s no hesitation in your answer, only a little sorrow, but both of you are going to pretend it isn’t there. “Make him go away.”

One of his arms snakes around you, jerking you to him, a gasp juddering through you as your heated, sensitive flesh is abruptly pressed against the cold expanse of him. His kiss is an assault, ferocious, dominating, almost painful, forcibly shoving every tender, beloved recollection of Autobot lovers past right the fuck out of your mind. Your breathing is ragged, audible even over the roar of his fans and you spare a thought to think about how this would look to a passerby, a thought that derails and burns as he shoves his hand down your bunched up swimsuit. You squirm in order to give him enough room to do what you need him to do, to spread your thighs even more so that he can slide one large, cool finger between your slick folds. Your head falls forward onto his shoulder and you writhe as he tries with the fumbling charm of a creature not quite intimately familiar with the human female form to find the sweet spot. When he does a couple of seconds later all you manage is a stuttering, “F-fuck…”

You _missed_ this. You need this. You want him to continue as much as you want to see him exposed, to see his spike and its ethereal biolights, to run your fingers along the length of it, to learn its shape with your lips and tongue. You want him to fuck you the way he’s promised, the way you’ve fantasized, until you are breathless and weak and sore. You’re on the cusp of begging for it when he suddenly tears himself away from you with enough force that it creates waves. You clutch the float in order to stay seated and stare at him, wide-eyed.

_“What?”_ he snarls, and you open your mouth to snap back before realizing that he’s not talking to you. He’s speaking to someone over the Autobot comms. You start tugging your swimsuit back up as he listens, which is difficult because, well, wet swimsuit. As you fight to get your arms back through the straps, you really don’t really have a choice but to eavesdrop.

“When?” Knock Out says after the span of several seconds. He’s turned around, moved away, but you can tell by the set of his shoulders how irritated he is by the interruption. “How badly?” Another short pause, and then: “Only one?”

You’re decent now. Judging from the tone of his voice, he won’t be picking up where he left off. Your disappointment is a powerful thing, but you struggle to keep your own frustration under wraps as you put your sunglasses back in place and slip into the water. You start towing your float to shore, swimming at first but then able to walk once your feet touch the lake bed. Knock Out is still listening to whatever is being said, and as you pass by him his hand flashes out, clamping around your wrist.

“Understood,” he says to whoever has just issued orders. Clearly the conversation is over, because he catches you by the chin with his other hand, tips your head back, and proceeds to kiss you slowly, deeply, thoroughly. You let go of the float in order to be able to reach for him. The warmth of arousal that had roared through you such a short time ago returns, but this time it’s a slow burn. Finally he relents, nipping at your lower lip with a growl.  


You fill in his words for him. “You’ve gotta go.”

He nods. His eyes skim your face, looking for doubt or anger or uncertainty, maybe. When he finds none of that, his smile appears in all its self-satisfied glory. “I told you it would be good.”

“It was _okay.”_ Your attempt at nonchalance is aided by the buoyancy of water, because truthfully you’re still a little weak in the knees.

He huffs a laugh, drops his mouth to yours for a brief moment before drawing away. He’s reluctant to let you go; his hold around your wrist loosens slowly. “I’m needed elsewhere,” he tells you, brow plates furrowing into a vexed V. “I’m not certain when I’ll return.”

“I get it.” You nod your understanding, trying to keep your dismay from your face. To go from what just happened to _I don’t know when I’ll be back_ fucking sucks.

“This isn’t over,” he tells you, fingers still cupping your chin, his gaze a smoldering one. You swallow and his thumb drops to that part of your throat, caressing. “Will you be ready for me?”

You swallow again, tasting lust, so thick and heady. His thumb presses there as he waits for your reply. Your voice is husky. “Yeah.”

It seems like those red eyes are glowing brighter than they ever have as they bore into yours, as they drop to linger on your lips and then proceed to rake down the rest of your body. The naked appreciation you see in his face is as gratifying as it is exhilarating. He’s entirely aware of his effect on you, his grin taking on its crooked edge as he backs away from you. You make to follow, but he shakes his head and points behind you. You turn to look. The unattended float has drifted almost halfway across the lake.

“Goddamnit,” you sigh.

**.x.**

The next day, your new temporary roommate arrives. Gage and his son arrive to drop off Sheba, who immediately begins scouting the perimeter. You engage in a short bit of chat and then they have to leave, so you wish your neighbor good luck for his upcoming surgery and watch as they drive away. Sheba, familiar with the drill, watches them go and then continues on. You sit on your deck stairs while you wait for her to finish, and once she does she comes up to you, laying her big head across your knees and staring up at you with her big amber eyes. You scratch behind her ears and ponder out loud what the two of you should do with the day.

You decide to return to the lake, because Sheba loves water and not at all because of what happened there yesterday. The dog hops into the bed of your truck the moment you open the door, and she spends the ride seated with her head held high, ears flapping in the wind. Every other time you’ve looked after her you’ve brought her to the lake and so once your truck is parked, she races you to the water as is routine. It’s just the two of you today, and you while away a couple of hours by tossing branches out into the water for her to retrieve. You didn’t bring a swimsuit but you’re wearing shorts, so you wade until the water lines your knees and watch as the big dog frolics with total and adorable abandon.

You are of course unable to keep from thinking about Knock Out, though you do try to dial those thoughts back once you start becoming aroused. Easier said than done, and the promise of what will happen when he’s able to return has you almost squirming where you stand. Eventually Sheba tires and the two of you sit in the sand for a while, simply enjoying the warmth of the sun. You check your phone and see that it's just past two in the afternoon. Time to head out. Back at home you head inside to fix yourself a late lunch while Sheba suns herself on your deck. You’ve just scarfed down half a ham and cheese sandwich when Sheba erupts into a flurry of low, frantic barks. You’re already pretty sure what to expect as you hasten to the door, still manage to be surprised as you find a small group of Autobots standing in your yard. Sheba, bless her, has not turned tail and run. Instead she is doing her utmost to protect you and your property, pacing back and forth with teeth bared as before her bemused Autobots stare back.

You quickly slip out the door. “Sheba!”

The dog doesn’t acknowledge you, instead darting forward to nip at Bumblebee’s foot. The scout doesn’t move, but does look at you with brow plates raised. Smokescreen, Optimus, and Ratchet complete the group, and as you hustle down the stairs the medic remarks, “I wasn’t aware you’d gotten a pet.”

“She’s not mine,” you say as you reach Sheba’s side. She instantly leans against you and you crouch, running your hands over her reassuringly. Her barking abates but her growling doesn’t. You talk to her in a low voice in an effort to get her to calm further. Bee slowly lowers himself onto one knee and you shoot him a warning glance. Either he doesn’t see it or he’s choosing to ignore it, because he extends one arm, bit by bit, until his hand is flat on the ground, his giant palm up, fingers splayed. After a few seconds Sheba inches past you and you let her go, because she really can’t do any damage to the Autobots and you know they wouldn’t hurt her. Still growling softly, she sniffs Bee’s fingers, one after the other, circling around his hand and then both of his legs. By the time she completes her circuit she’s no longer making noise, though each step she takes is a cautious one and she keeps her eyes fixed on Bee. The scout makes a small gesture with his free hand, looking a question at you. You nod, watch as, with agonizing slowness, he reaches out to pet Sheba with one finger. She endures his first touch while hunkered low to the ground, and encouraged by her inaction he continues. Gradually she eases into an upright position, leaning into his petting, tail wagging, and you grin. Bee’s just made a new friend.

“Can I?” Smokescreen asks from behind Bee. The look on his face is amusing. You don’t know if he’s ever seen a dog up close before.

“Sure. Just do like he did. Take it slow.”

As Smokescreen proceeds to follow Bee’s suit, you turn your attention to the other two Autobots. Ratchet is fiddling with his datapad, and you’ve seen him do this enough to know what he’s doing: checking the security system to ensure it’s working as it should. You debate bringing up the purple eyes you thought you saw and ultimately decide not to. Ratchet knows his stuff. With him occupied there’s only one Autobot left to engage, and so your eyes alight upon Optimus Prime.

The Autobot leader is watching his subordinates interact with Sheba and there’s something almost like a smile on his face. Sensing your attention, his gaze falls upon you, and with a discreet thrust of his head he beckons you to join him off to the side. You nod, walking in the direction indicated, and when you half-turn to see if he’s following you’re confronted with him in reduced form. You’ve never conversed with a mass-displaced Optimus before. Come to think of it, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him this way. He loses none of his presence; indeed, he still looms over you, easily hitting the seven foot mark or more. He follows you as you walk the length of your house, and when you settle down beneath the chokecherry tree that grows next to your bedroom window, he does the same. In the past, your one on one chats with the leader of the Autobots had tended to make you nervous. You feel a bit of that now, but mostly just a sense of calm familiarity. You’re not sure you can label Optimus a friend, but you do think of him as family, and he you.

“It’s good to see you,” is what you say to break the ice. You’re sitting cross-legged, plucking blades of grass. He is leaning against the trunk of the tree and even seated, he’s so tall that his head is almost lost to the foliage of the lowest branches. He looks at you as though measuring the truth of your words. You endure it. You can’t really blame him. You did go out of your way to avoid him and all the other Autobots for two entire years, after all.  “I mean it,” you tell him earnestly. “Even though I… well, you know. I thought of you guys a lot. I missed you.”

“And we you, Earthling,” he says in that grave, sonorous voice. Optimus Prime does not lie, and that’s why you suddenly find yourself on the verge of tears born of regret and shame for your actions.

“I’m sorry—” you begin, but he shakes his head.

“We understood your reasoning for being absent.”

“I know you did.”

“Then,” he says, “there is no reason for distress.”

The look you give him is a grateful one, your agreement a watery, rueful laugh. “Okay.”

There’s short silence between the two of you as you both watch Bee and Smokescreen alter their sizes one after the other. Sheba is ecstatic with this development, jumping up to place her front paws on Bee’s chest before taking off at top speed to run circles around them.

Optimus speaks again. “Have you been well?”

“Yeah. Pretty good. I suspect Ratchet’s kept you up to date?”

“He has, but I wished to hear it from you.”

“Well… all good here.” You wince. Making small talk with Optimus is tough to do. You discard a dozen trite, irrelevant things to say and jump right to what you really want to know. “Why are you guys here? Is there a problem with the energon mining?”

“No.” There is a long, heavy pause. “The problem lies on Cybertron.”

_Uh oh._ “What do you mean?”

“There is a storm,” he responds grimly. “It is of cyclopean proportions. It has been building since before our return to the planet. Initial studies predicted it would remain in the eastern hemisphere and eventually abate over the span of several stellar cycles. Instead it began to behave anomalously, unlike any other recorded weather pattern.”

“Why?”

“The reasons remain unknown, though the experts among us believe it could be part of the fallout of the war that destroyed our world.”

“So… the storm is approaching Iacon?””

“It has already reached Iacon.”

“What kind of storm is it?”

“A most deadly one. It causes powerful magnetic disturbances in addition to scattered plasma discharges. Had we an excess of energon we could construct some manner of shielding, but our current supply is required for day-to-day operations and for the restoration. Without protection, we cannot withstand it.”

“What about all the rebuilding you’ve already done?”

“Some damage is unavoidable.”

“Shit,” you utter, and then with feeling, “I’m so sorry, Optimus.”

He inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement of your commiseration. And that’s when it dawns on you. “So… you’re stranded here for a while then?”

“Until the storm no longer encompasses Iacon, yes.” He preemptively answers your next question. “There is no certainty as to how long that will be. It could be months, by your measurement of time, or it could be years.”

Years, to them, are simply a blink of an eye, but any delay in rebuilding Cybertron is a significant one, particularly in light of what Knock Out told you. To have come so far, to have achieved so much—to have survived tribulation and strife many times over and finally be able to return to Cybertron and begin the restoration only to have to flee again—you can’t fathom how disheartening it must be.

“Optimus…” you say softly, and are unable to find any other words to convey what you’re thinking.

He understands, meeting your look, and surprises you by showing just the faintest arc of a sad smile. “We are most fortunate to have a second home. Circumstances aside, it is pleasant to be here again.”

“Are you all here, though? Ratchet said others had returned once you began the restoration. Will they all be coming to Earth?”

He shakes his head. “No. We thought it best to restrict our number to those of us who originally arrived here. The others have gone to different havens.”

“Will they be okay?”

“They are safe. In the event they are not, we are easily able to communicate or transport via the space bridge.”

“Well,” you say with a sad attempt at a heartening smile, “Welcome home, I guess.”

“Thank you, Earthling. It is good to be here once again.”

He means what he’s saying, which is nice. Across the yard, Sheba’s bark rings out, and your eyes dart in that direction to find that Smokescreen and Bumblebee have discovered the art of Fetch. Ratchet, having finished checking one portion of the security system, continues onto the next, sparing the two mass-displaced Autobots a mildly amused glance. Everything seems so … normal, or at least normal the way you remember it being, years ago before their return to Cybertron. The only thing missing from this idyllic (for you) scene is Ultra Magnus… Ultra Magnus, who is now stranded here on Earth for an indeterminate amount of time, who you will undoubtedly encounter more than a few times in the future, who you still undeniably have feelings for…

Sometimes Optimus’ ability to discern thoughts and emotions is downright eerie. “Earthling,” he says, bracing himself on one hand and turning to face you fully. “Are you truly well?”

You’ve already been over this, but you know what he’s really asking this time. You don’t want to dance around the topic; you’ve been doing that for the past two years. “You want to know if I’m okay after seeing Ultra Magnus again.”

“I understand that the termination of a relationship can be unequivocally painful for—”

“Yes,” you interrupt, because to be honest you’re tired of hearing the words ‘for humans’. “It was not pleasant. It hurt. I was upset for a long time. And then I got over it.” _Almost,_ your brain unhelpfully adds. Optimus’ gaze on you is steady and it takes a lot of effort not to fidget under its weight. “I mean… seeing him again wasn’t—wasn’t great. Brought back a lot of stuff I thought I’d dealt with. But I’m doing okay. I’ll be okay. I assure you. Besides,” you add in an attempt to add some levity, “You have enough to worry about already, sounds like.”

“You are family,” he reminds you gently. “You will always have our concern.”

You blush a little at that. He is the most austere creature that has ever lived and he can make you feel more humble than any other person or thing in existence. You stare down at the blades of grass you’ve amassed during this conversation, start to clumsily braid them together. You’re casting about for something else to say when Optimus beats you to the punch by landing a verbal one.

“If you intend to keep visiting June in Jasper, you will not be able to avoid seeing Ultra Magnus.”

“Yeah,” you say, your eyes fixed on the task your fingers are performing, “I know.”

“Have you given any thought to speaking with him?”

“Yes,” your mouth blurts out. You don’t like that. It _is_ something you’d been thinking about, but hadn’t intended anyone else to know. Well, the truth’s out now. Might as well roll with it. “Not entirely sure how that would go down, though. I still have a lot of—” _Sadness. Guilt. Misplaced anger and resentment._ “—stuff I guess I haven’t worked out.”

“You should know…” he begins, but stops. You lift your head to look at him, hands falling still as you wait to hear what he is unsure he should say. He is silent, deliberating, before he continues on with a sound that might be a sigh. “You should know that Ultra Magnus has not entirely recovered from what transpired.”

You feel a little injection of mixed emotion: sorrow, vindictive jubilation, confusion, disbelief. Your next words are very quiet. “Is he okay?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, but?”

“I suggest that you speak with him, Earthling.”

_Why?_ You want to demand. _Why should I? Why should I care?_ And the shitty thing is that you _do_ care. You thought maybe you didn’t anymore but one simple look at Ultra Magnus had informed you otherwise. Where he is concerned you are a tangled ball of anger and frustration, the bulk of which is aimed at him. It’s misplaced, though, and you know that—you both made the decision to end things. You are as culpable for your heartbreak as he is.

Optimus is waiting for you to say something. “Okay,” you concur on a heavy sigh.

You start braiding grass blades again. Across the way, Sheba is laying on her back in an attempt to garner tummy rubs, and you smile to see Bee and Smokescreen crouched on either side of her, clearly unfamiliar with dog body language. They’ll figure it out eventually.

Optimus breaks the silence yet again. “I have spoken to Ratchet.”

There’s no deviation from his usual tone, no inflection, no emphasis. Still, you’re able to parse what he hasn’t said. “And he told you about Knock Out’s interest in me?”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re going to express your disapproval?”

You’re aware that you’re sounding a little confrontational, realize you don’t really care. You’re human, you have a short life span, you’re not capable of amassing and carrying lifetimes of knowledge in your fleshy little brain, but you _are_ fucking capable of deciding where your affections should go. For the first and hopefully only time in your life, you find yourself locked in a staredown with Optimus Prime.

“It is not my place to express approval or disapproval. However, I will as someone who cares for you encourage you to exercise caution.”

_As someone who cares for you,_ he’d said. In anyone else, you’d call that an effort at emotional manipulation. You can’t, though, because he is who he is, incapable of dissembling, honest and genuine and shepherd over a mixed flock of autonomous robotic organisms and humans, a flock that you belong to. 

“Caution because he’s not trustworthy?” you ask. Optimus wouldn’t say these things without reason. “I thought he passed all the tests.”

“He is an Autobot,” is the firm reply. “There is no doubting that. He has proved himself time and again. His loyalty is not in question.”

“So, I need to be cautious because… ?”

“Knock Out is not without issues in his past, Earthling.”

You frown. “What exactly does that mean? Are you talking about the Decepticons? Is that why you sent him to Earth weeks ago?”

Optimus’ shake of the head is singular, slow, decisive. The answers to those questions are not forthcoming. Instead he says, “I am encouraging you to seek what you want, what it is you need to find contentment, but to do so carefully. I do not wish to see you hurt.”

He’s speaking of pain other than physical. You stare at him, piecing his words together with all the other scattered bits of info you’ve accumulated over the last several weeks: Knock Out’s sudden arrival, his mysterious injuries, Ratchet’s reluctance to speak on the matter, Knock Out’s abrupt departure from your steamy lake session yesterday. Optimus does not lie, so whatever he is warning against is something you need to consider. You probably should be mad at yourself for not looking before you leapt, mad at Knock Out for whatever reason it is you’re sure exists to be mad at him for, but you aren’t. Not yet, at least. You’re just… confused.

Apparently your inner conflict displays openly on your features, because his voice softens with his next words. “Knock Out is, I am certain, genuine in his intentions toward you, and if you choose to be receptive that is your right, Earthling. I am merely advising you to proceed with a measure of care.”

“And if I—” you start, debate continuing, press on, “—if I’ve already decided to take him up on his offer?”

“Does that choice make you happy?”

There’s no hesitation in your answer, even though the offer Knock Out made hasn’t actually come to fruition yet. “Yes. I think so.”

“My suggestion remains the same.”

He’s looking out for you. He was willing to sit here and have this uncomfortable talk about feelings and relationships simply to try and steer you in a direction that won’t lead to you sinking your own ship. The surge of affection you feel for him in that moment would be hug-inducing, if only he were the hugging kind. You subdue the urge to wrap your arms around him and instead say lightly, earnestly, “Thanks, Dad.”

His brow plating flicks upward for just a moment before a small smile creases his mouth. “You are welcome.”

You watch as he gets to his feet, stooping to avoid damaging the branches of the chokecherry tree, and once he’s free of them he extends a hand to you. You take it, letting him pull you upright easily. As the two of you begin walking back across the yard, you say, “I mean it, though. Thank you. I appreciate it, especially after I ghosted you for two years. I know talking about all that is probably right at the bottom of your ‘things to do’ checklist.”

“That checklist is not as lengthy as you might think,” he responds. “Due to the storm, most of our operations are on hold. We find ourselves back on Earth with very little to do.”

“I’m in need of a gardener,” you offer, and are rewarded with another faint smile.

“I will keep that in mind.”

You rejoin the other Autobots, Ratchet included, and you are highly amused to see that both Smokescreen and Bumblebee have thoroughly succumbed to Sheba’s charms. Ratchet less so, but the expression on his face as he watches them interact with her is not disdainful, so that’s a plus.

“Are all dogs awesome like this?” Smokescreen asks.

“Most are.”

“You should keep her.”

“Can’t. She’s not mine.”

“How long is she here for?”

“Another two or three days, maybe.”

Bee emits a string of sounds, which Smokescreen translates. “Can we come back before she goes?”

“Yes. You’re welcome here whenever, and not just to visit the dog.”

Your sass gets you a grin from the blue and silver Autobot. “Hey, I was ready and willing to talk with you, but then Optimus stole you away.”

“And for that I apologize,” the leader says, “but it is time now that we return to base. Ratchet, is the defensive system in order?”

“Functioning as it should,” Ratchet reports, and once again you stand on the cusp of mentioning what you’d seen two nights prior. You don’t, and instead nod your thanks in his direction. He asks, “Will you be joining us in Jasper anytime soon?”

“Probably. June mentioned getting together.”

“I’ll see you then,” he says, and proceeds to remotely activate a ground bridge using his datapad. As the bridge yawns open just in front of where your truck is parked, Sheba backpedals, not quite prepared to deal with this new development. Bee follows her, soothes her with a pat on the head, and when he starts to approach the swirling tunnel of blues and greens she tentatively follows.

“She has to stay here,” you remind him, and he shoos her back with a wave of his hand. She’s not convinced, so you go to her, kneeling at her side and loosely draping an arm around her neck. Ratchet has already entered the bridge and Optimus stands poised to follow, which he does after inclining his head in your direction.

“See you soon?” Smokescreen asks before he departs. He’s reverted to his standard size. You nod and he steps into the bridge. Bee remains, his eyes on Sheba before they focus on you. He surprises you by crossing the distance that separates you, dropping to one knee, and encompassing both you and the dog in a hug. He’s still pint-sized so you’re able to return the embrace easily.

“Missed you too,” you say when he draws back, and he beeps what you’re certain is a similar sentiment. He gestures through the bridge, the invitation clear, and you nod. “Soon. But you can always come here too, you know?”

He chirps the affirmative. Sheba is staring up at him with her soulful eyes, tail wagging, and he presses his head to hers before getting to his feet. You worry she’ll follow as he enters the bridge but instead she sits, leaning against you, and you dig your fingers into her ruff and wave goodbye with the other hand. Once the bridge is closed you sit back on your ass with a sigh. Sheba follows, rolling onto her back, and you stroke your fingers across her belly while you think about your talk with Optimus.

“Just once,” you say to the dog, “just once I’d like something involving the Autobots to be uncomplicated.”

**.x.**

Tuesday and Wednesday are uneventful. You hear from Gage’s son. The surgery went well, but he’ll be hospital bound another two days at least, and can you manage with Sheba for that long? The answer is yes, of course, and you tell him to wish Gage well before the call is over. You spend the daylight hours doing some chores, running some errands, fitting in some writing time when you’re able. No Autobots come to visit, and there’s no word from Knock Out. Despite the discussion you'd had with Optimus, your opinion of the former Decepticon really hasn’t changed and you suppose maybe that’s a bad thing. You still want him. You still very much want to finish what was started at the lake. Maybe after two years of abstaining you’re just too horny to think rationally.

Wednesday night. It’s a growling sound that wakes you, and after rolling onto your side and blinking at the clock in confusion, you realize it’s Sheba that’s making the noise. You push yourself upright, shove your hair out of your face, and call out softly to the dog. You can see her big silhouette in the open door to your bedroom.

The house begins to shake.

“What the fuck,” is your gasp as you clutch at the sheets. This is different from the way it trembles during a thunderstorm. This is something else, something substantial, and then you hear an additional noise: the back and forth staccato patter of footsteps (?) on the roof. _Squirrels,_ you'd thought the last time it happened, but if this is a squirrel it’s a fucking big one. Somewhere in the house a window shatters and Sheba begins to bark, a deep, frenzied sound that raises the hairs on your arms.

Another window shatters. A piercing high-low ululation begins to sound and you are utterly confounded for a moment until you realize it’s the alarm Ratchet had installed. Something is out there, something big, something hostile. Something is attempting to get inside. You sit where you are, riveted by terror, before recalling the plan you and Ratchet had devised in the event of something like this.

_Get to the basement,_ he’d told you. _Don’t go outside. The turrets will be firing. Get to the basement, get in the corner, and wait. I’ll be alerted the same time the sensors are triggered. I’ll be on my way._

_God,_ you hope it plays out like he’d said it would. You fumble for your phone on the bedside table and bolt from the room, whispering at Sheba to follow, as all around you the house continues to shake. More windows are breaking, sounds like, and the alarm is still blaring and even over all that commotion you’re able to hear the turrets outside, firing off short, rapid bursts. That’s another reason you need to get below ground—the turret ammunition doesn’t differentiate between friend or foe.

Sheba follows you, still barking, as you race through the kitchen and through the basement door. You shut it behind you, locking it even though there’s probably no point, and pound down the stairs. You’re using your phone to light the way and it casts awful wavering shadows as you run, as you reach the cold cement floor, as you make your way to the furthest corner and sink down there. Sheba stands in front of you, tail flattened between her legs, emitting a continuous growl. Upstairs, the cacophony continues.

“Please, Ratchet,” you whisper.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know in most versions Cybertron has no atmosphere, but in some of the comics it's shown to rain there, so that's how I'm going to roll. 
> 
> Sheba is based on my family's dog, (also Sheba). Pretty much exactly as I describe her. I love her to bits and wanted to include her in one of my fics, [so here she is.](https://imgur.com/a/tacJqVB)
> 
> If you're still here reading my many words, you're great and I love you.
> 
>  **P.S.** For those interested, I've recently updated my [Megatron/Reader fic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20133046/chapters/47696398#workskin)


	7. Don't stick your spike in crazy

The shaking persists down here. It sounds like something is trying to tear your house off its foundation and your brain has no problem with creating a visual representation of that for you to mull over. You reach out and touch Sheba on the flank. She stops growling just long enough to twist around and give you a quick lick before resuming her sentinel’s stance. It doesn’t escape you that she’s terrified too—her tail is entirely tucked between her rear legs now—but she’s still doing her damndest to make a stand against whatever awful Unknown lurks without.

Your phone blares, startling you so badly you fall to the side. It’s lying face-up, so you can see who’s calling—it’s the line the Autobots communicate from. With shaking hands you pick it up, fumble to swipe, and hold it to your ear.

Ratchet. “Earthling?”

You nod frantically, realize he can’t see you, and stutter an affirmative. “We are coming,” he says, and the line goes dead. Relief washes over you, followed immediately by insidious doubt—will they make it in time? Will whatever is out there run from them? Fight them? Overwhelm them? You can do nothing but wait so you do just that, tucking your knees to your chest, your eyes fixed forward, wondering if something truly terrible is about to shape itself out of the dark. The alarm is still going. The house is still shaking. Sheba is still growling. And then, suddenly, it all stops.

Sheba’s growls taper off in the minutes that follow, and then it’s just the sound of your breathing and her panting in the darkness. You start counting the seconds because you don’t know what else to do, reach two hundred before your phone goes off again.

“It’s safe,” Ratchet says. “We’re outside.”

**.x.**

He and Knock Out are arguing on your lawn. You can hear them from inside as you leave the basement, Sheba following at your heels. It’s almost dawn and the interior of your house is beginning to lighten as a result. Before going outside you return to your room to don sweat pants and a hoodie. Given that panic is still thundering through your veins and that you’re still trembling as a result, you need something with more substance than your ratty old nightgown T-shirt. When you’re done you pass through your living room and catch a glimpse of the two bots outside. Ratchet is emphatically gesticulating as he snaps loudly, “This is _your_ mess!”

Knock Out’s voice is low enough that you can’t make out the words. His back is to you. As you open the door Ratchet’s eyes snap to you and he approaches, waiting until you reach the bottom of the stairs before he gives you a once over with his trained eye. “You are unharmed?”

You nod. Aside from your erratic heartbeat and too-fast breathing and still present sense of unadulterated alarm, you’re fine. Knock Out has turned around, and it’s to him you direct your question. “What mess is he talking about?”

He and Ratchet exchange glances. You’re on the verge about asking about that, too, except that something is glinting on the ground and your stomach drops as you realize it’s glass from your living room window. Gripping the railing, you turn, slowly survey the exterior of your house. Every single fucking window on this side has been broken. This will be a fun one to explain to your insurance company.

“What did this?” you demand, turning back around. Silence. Now you’re getting angry, and in addition to everything else it makes you feel a little lightheaded. “Was it a Decepticon?”

“I scanned for biosignatures after we arrived. There were none,” Ratchet says, “but that _is_ what triggered the system.”

Frustration and fear jack your volume up well into the shrill range. “What _the fuck_ is going on?”

Knock Out has been silent this entire time. He’s turned, facing north. His refusal to respond to you is worrisome and then some. You look at him again, holding out your hands in supplication, needing an explanation. Ratchet wheels around, marches up to Knock Out, and says with quiet fury, “Tell her.”

Knock Out’s response is a single nod.

“I will be checking the rest of the system,” Ratchet announces as he strides past. “Do it quickly. We shouldn’t remain here any longer than we need to.”

More silence follows his departure. Though you can only see him in profile, you note that Knock Out looks uncharacteristically defeated. He finally turns, says tonelessly, “Looks like I’ll be spending the rest of the night.”

It’s something he should have said with a smirk, a wink, and the fact that he doesn’t turns your stomach. You are standing at the threshold of a big reveal and it’s got to be bad based on how he’s acting. You ask, mollified to find that there’s only a slight trace of a waver remaining in your voice, “What about tomorrow?”

There’s a bitter twist to his mouth, to his words. “That’s for others to decide.”

Ratchet’s voice carries on the breeze; he’s undoubtedly filling in the others on what happened. Knock Out’s eyes travel in that direction and you wonder how bad this mess is, how much trouble he’s in. You want to ask—no, scratch that, you want to demand because it’s your right given that whatever it is just tromped all over your yard in a less than friendly manner. You don’t, though, sensing that this is something that needs to come out in its own time. Instead you sit down, leaning your head against the railing, tucking yourself more securely into your hoodie to ward off the chill that doesn’t just stem from the early morning temperature. Sheba is still by your side, pressed against you, and you put an arm around her to draw her closer, deriving comfort from her presence.

“That’s a new development,” Knock Out remarks shortly, indicating the dog with a thrust of his chin. He’s stalling.

“Temporary,” you snip back, defensive on her behalf because she’d stuck with you throughout all the chaos.

He looks away with an aggravated sound that you know is not directed toward you. Silence falls. You rotate your shoulders, turn your head from side to side. The stress from the last hour has tightened all those muscles, resulting in myriad sharp aches. You’re still trembling, only a little, but you can feel it in your hands. You lift the one not touching Sheba, hold it up to find that your knuckles are white from being clenched.

Perhaps Knock Out has noticed this. “Come down here.”

You frown. “No funny stuff,” he tells you, and there’s a self-recriminatory edge to his voice you’ve never heard before. “I promise,” he adds when you hesitate. 

You get to your feet, walk down the stairs, and join him on the lawn. He reduces his size as you approach, gestures to the grass, watches as you settle down before he joins you. Sheba, who followed you this far, sits on the opposite side of you, within easy reach.

Neither of you speak. Ratchet’s voice drifts to you, an indecipherable word here or there. He’s on the other side of your house, likely going over every single inch of the defensive system’s physical parts. Finally you speak. “What was it?”

Knock Out sighs. _“Who,”_ he corrects. You’d guessed as much, wait for the rest of it. “Airachnid.”

You’ve heard the name before, in snippets of conversation among the Autobots. Nothing good was said back then, which figures given, well, the everything that’s just happened. You wait for an elaboration but it’s not happening so you take the wheel to direct this conversation down whatever shitty river it’s headed down. “She’s a Decepticon.”

“She was, a long time ago.”

“Recently, I thought. Here, on Earth?”

“Briefly, and that was subterfuge more than anything. A means to an end. That’s how she is.”

You’ve never seen him like this, agitated so blatantly. Even after witnessing the abuse he suffered at Megatron’s hands, even after he defected, his moods tended to run on the sardonically amused side. This is something different, something weighty. He’s given you the end of the thread, but you’ll clearly have to pull to unravel, and you’re more than a little afraid of what’s going to tumble out once you do. Still, you need to know. You reach to the side, comb your fingers into the thick, fluffy fur on Sheba’s neck. “Why don’t you tell me all of it?”

He’s been staring straight ahead all this time, but he turns to look down at you now. He’s taller than you by a head or so in his current state, so you swivel around, brace yourself on your hands, and lean back on them so you can see him clearly.

His expression is grim. “You won’t like some of it.”

“I don’t like this, either!” You gesture (a little wildly) to the current state of your yard and home. Sheba’s ears perk at the increase in your volume, and you reassure her by stroking a hand down her back.

Knock Out heaves another sigh. It’s a miserable sound. You feel compassion tugging at your heart and wonder if he’s deserving of it. “A long, long, long time ago—by your standards, at least—Airachnid and I used to interface regularly.”

You blink. Open your mouth, shut it slowly. This is not at all where you thought this was headed. He’s watching you closely and you can’t help the way your eyes crinkle up, or the way your lips purse as you attempt to parse this. “Are you saying—is this—is she fucking with me because of _that?_ Because the two of you have history?”

“She’s doing this to fuck with me and the Autobots in general.”

Your eyes narrow and you look at him disbelievingly. “So the fact that the two of you used to interface doesn’t factor into this at all?”

“I get why you’d think that,” he says, “but no, that’s not why. She feels like she owes me payback.”

“What the fuck did you do to warrant payback?”

“Attacked her when her real intentions were revealed. Managed, barely, to trick her into falling face first into an inactive stasis pod.” A smile creases his face, familiar and smug, at the memory. “Which I then activated.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I made use of the space bridge to maroon that stasis pod on a desolate little moon. The perfect shitty resting place for all eternity – or at least it should have been.”

“Except she got free somehow.”

His smile turns brittle. “Yes. That moon is near an old abandoned Decepticon orbital shipyard. At the time I thought the chances of Cybertronians returning was non-existent, but I was wrong. We weren’t the only ones to return after Optimus secured the Omega Lock.”

“Ratchet said something about that. Starscream and Shockwave managed to fix the _Nemesis’_ space bridge for one last trip?”

“Yes. And once back on Cybertron, they were able to evade us long enough to find a functioning ship. And once they had the ship, they went scavenging for anything they could use, managed to make their vessel spaceworthy, and from there…”

“The orbital shipyard.”

“They must have run scans to detect any signs of life in the vicinity and found Airachnid. Obviously they set her loose. I can’t figure out why. She and Starscream share a deep and mutual loathing for each other.”

“They just let her go loose after turning on them?”

Knock Out emits a short, harsh laugh. “I doubt they set her free without contingencies in place. Airachnid is fiendishly clever and intelligent, even compared to Shockwave. I’ve no doubt she managed to outsmart them both. She managed to hijack a shuttle from the shipyard and make her way to Cybertron, where she immediately began to antagonize us.”

“How?”

“By doing anything she possibly could to derail the restoration efforts.”

“Why? It was her home too.”

He shakes his head. “No. She is and always has been a drifter. A loner. She likes to be able to do what she wants when she wants, unfettered by things like protocol and authority. She has no ties to Cybertron.”

“So she’s the reason you were reassigned here?”

“Yes. Those in charge,” and there’s a definite tinge of irritation in those three words, “thought that if I were absent, she might cease. They also attempted to lure her into a trap, which as you can tell failed.”

“So she found a way here instead?”

Knock Out’s tone is one of grudging admiration. “She did. She managed to sneak her way into our HQ in Iacon, subdue the guards, and activate the space bridge we use for energon transport.”

This sounds to you an awful lot like a woman with a vendetta, and you say as much. “She could have stayed on Cybertron, Knock Out. She went to a great deal of trouble just to follow you here. Her score to settle is with _you.”_ _And, apparently, me._

He looks distinctly unhappy. “I already said as much.”

“When you showed up here that day… When you posed as Caleb’s car—did you know she was here already?”

“No.” At your dubious expression, he shakes his head and reiterates. “No. I didn’t know. I’d only just arrived myself.”

“But after that—the attack on you, that was her?”

He nods. “She caught me outside one of our energon mines. Literally caught me, in one of her ridiculous webs.”

 _Webs?_ _What the_ actual _fuck._ You shove that particularly alarming bit of news aside in order to focus on all the rest. “And she just let you go?”

“Not until she’d made her point.” He gestures to the part of his chassis that had born the talon marks.

“That point being?”

One corner of his mouth twists up in a mirthless smile. “That she’d only just begun.”

“Okay,” you say, mulling over all of this with considerable calm when taking into account all of… _this._ “Okay. So, what happened after that?”

“I started looking for her, of course. We informed Optimus that she’d made it through, but they’d already figured out that much.”

“You never found her?”

He shakes his head. “She’s very good at remaining elusive when she chooses to be.”

“So… at the lake…?”

His expression contorts and it’s a mixture of intense regret and anger. “Yes. That unforgivable interruption was because of her. She attacked one of the mines.”

You blow your breath out slow. You are not unfamiliar with the danger that comes as part and parcel of being involved with an Autobot, but this feels different. Invasive. Creepy. Knowing she was in your yard not so very long ago, on the roof of your house, doing her best to terrify you for her own amusement…

“Earthling.” Knock Out slides a knuckle under your chin, tips your head up. From the corner of your eye you see Sheba lift her head, keeping a close eye on you both. Your heart melts a little at her blatant concern. Knock Out goes on, atypical severity lining his every word. “I _am_ genuinely sorry. I didn’t think she would take it this far. And I’m sorry that—”

“She’s been here before,” you interrupt.

He frowns. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because the first time I just thought it was a squirrel.”

“The _first_ time?”

You give him a _look._ Is he really going to take that tone with you now, after revealing that all of this shit ties directly to him? He recognizes he’s overstepped, lets his hand fall, and gestures for you to continue. You go on, “The second time was the day we were at the lake. I got up to get a drink in the middle of the night and saw purple eyes outside.”

He makes a noise of disbelieving aggravation, ducking his head down close to yours. “And you didn’t even once _think_ to mention it to one of us?”

It’s your turn to feel really stupid. “I did,” you admit, “twice. But the defenses never triggered and they vanished so quickly. I thought maybe I’d imagined it.” Before he can say anything, you insist, “It’s happened before, after the _Nemesis._ I saw red eyes in the dark sometimes. Turns out I don’t process life and death situations very well.”

“Fuck,” he says, looking away from you and running his hand over his head, and despite everything it makes you smile. You’ll always be amused by the fact that he’s adopted human slang when the rest of his kind have made it a point not to. Your smile fades as the impact of everything you’ve just discussed hits home.

“She wants me dead.”

His eyes swing back to your face and his expression is unfamiliar and uncomfortably solemn. “Probably.”

You feel your shoulders sag beneath the weight of that. You’ve been in this position before, except last time it was Knock Out himself that wanted you dead. You wonder if he’s aware of the similarities in this situation, of how absurd it’s all become. Your lack of sleep, mixed with the toll of the events of the evening, are starting to have an effect. You lift a hand to rub your left temple where you feel a headache coming on.

You say tiredly, “I thought I was done with all this shit.”

You feel his cool fingers beneath your chin again, tilting your head so that he can see your face clearly. “I _will_ fix this,” he tells you in the most serious tone you’ve ever heard him use. “I’ll take care of it.”

“How?” And then, prompted by intuition and knowledge of who he is and how he operates, you express your revelation out loud. “You’re going to do something stupid.”

“Have a little faith,” he chides with the ghost of that stupid crooked grin that you like so much.

“That’s not a no, Knock Out.”

“Earthling,” he says laughingly and you’re torn between wanting to shake some sense into him and yanking his head down for a kiss. You’re no stranger to conflicting emotions, which is why you manage to do neither.

“What exactly are you going to do?”

It’s like a switch has been flipped. All traces of amusement are smoothed from his face, leaving his countenance uncharacteristically sedate. “Return to Cybertron. I’m going to lure her back there. This has gone on for far too long. It’s past time I put an end to things.”

He sounds certain that he can do it, and maybe he can, but in true Earthling form you can only think about the negatives right now. When you speak next your voice is small, quiet. “Will you come back?”

A smile, uncertain and faint, flickers across his face as he reaches for you, his fingers fanning out across your cheek. “I would like to.”

You’re unable to respond, because another voice—rich, composed, entirely feminine—does it for you. “But you won’t.”

Your head jerks around. There, perched spider-like upon the roof of your garden shed, is who you can only presume is the newest villain in your tale. Sheba hunkers low to the ground, resuming her rolling growl. Knock Out confirms your assumption, jolting to his feet and spinning around. “Airachnid!”

“Knock Out, my spark’s desire,” she greets in a tone so falsely sweet that it curdles your blood, “and his little human _pet.”_

**.x.**

Airachnid is beautiful. Strangely, eerily, terrifyingly beautiful. She’s not standing as you’re used to seeing it—she hangs suspended from six black legs. They are fragile looking (deceptively so, you’re willing to bet), jointed and tipped withs a trio of spikes that glint purple in the light of early morning. She is smaller than most Cybertonians, around the same size as Arcee, and her compact form is black and magenta with gold highlights at the shoulders, knees, wrists, and head. Her biolights are the same shade as her narrowed, angular eyes, eyes that are fixed on you now with an intensity that raises the flesh on your arms, the same eyes that had stared at you the other night.

You suck in a breath and scream. _“RATCHET!”_

Compelled by the naked terror in your cry, Sheba begins to bark. Airachnid’s voice carries easily over the ruckus. “Oh, I’m afraid the good doctor is all tied up at the moment,” she tells you with a playful tilt of the head.

It takes Knock Out the smallest fraction of a second to return to his normal stature, and once he does he positions himself defensively in front of you. The transition startles the dog into silence and she slinks up beside you with a whimper. 

“How are you here?” Knock Out demands.

“I’ve learned some things, here and there.” is Airachnid’s response. Her extra limbs retract in a graceful rush until she is standing on two legs. She drops to a crouch, waves a hand in the air, a casual, conversational gesture. “Things you Autobots neglected to discover on Cybertron, caught up in your admirable efforts at restoration as you all were. Things like…” she trails off, braces her elbow on her knee and props her head in her hand as she looks down at you both.

Her deliberate cessation has the intended effect. “Get to the fucking point,” Knock Out snaps.

She smiles. You notice she has fangs, because of course she does. “I learned how to mask my biosignature,” she reveals. “Not indefinitely, but long enough to be useful. Long enough to escape the detection of Autobot defense systems. And, embarrassingly for the three of you, long enough to avoid detection by _actual_ Autobots. Ratchet’s a clever boy, but—how does the human saying go?—that old dog needs new tricks.”

 _Ratchet._ You whip around with Sheba at your heels, scanning your yard for any sign of him. You’d heard his voice earlier coming from the other side of your house and you realize then that while you and Knock Out were busy talking, he’d been attacked by her. _All tied up,_ she’d said, but what if it’s worse than that? Fear for the Autobot medic knots your stomach, tightens your throat, and without thinking you lurch in that direction. You stagger to a halt as Airachnid abruptly and nimbly lands on the roof of your house, peering down at you with her arms folded.

“Such concern for the doctor,” she notes appraisingly. “Are you interfacing with him too?”

You can’t help the noise you make, indignant rage and fear all bundled into one harsh, choking gasp. Knock Out steps forward, inserting himself between you and she once again. Airachnid makes a contemplative humming noise, bending to one side to be able to see you from beneath his legs. Her eyes flit from him to you and back again.

“How gallant of you, Knock Out!” she exclaims. “Offering her your protection so quickly! Commendable, almost, but between you and me—Earthling, is it?—you could do _so_ much better.”

You don’t have to see Knock Out’s face to envision his expression. Airachnid, it seems, has a talent for creative verbal abuse, which she continues to showcase mercilessly. “But as I understand it, I think you already had better, didn’t you? Weren’t you interfacing with Ultra Magnus at one point?”

Knock Out advances a step, his left arm seamlessly transforming into a blaster. Airachnid’s six legs extend, framing her body, talon tips pointing outward. Her voice is honeyed venom as she taunts,“You seem upset, Knock Out. Have I struck a nerve?”

He opens fire without a word, without warning, the red of his blaster fire peppering the air. She leaps, is airborne with alarming speed, lithely twisting to avoid his shots. You whip around, lunge forward, your brain frantically trying to puzzle out what you’re supposed to do here other than ‘run and hide.’ Ratchet has somehow been removed from the board and as much as you want to run and find him you know it’s a bad call. Instead you veer in the direction of your truck, a shitty escape plan forming with every pounding step you take. Sheba races beside you, loyal beyond all expectation. You reach your truck, skid to a halt, are reaching for the door when it’s suddenly struck with thick threads of a white substance. You stare at it uncomprehendingly for a second before your memory helpfully throws you a bone—

_—her ridiculous webs—_

A part of you wants to touch the stuff, foolish curiosity rearing its head at the most inopportune moment. The sound of blaster fire yanks you away from that idiotic inclination. You explode into movement again, running around the backside of your truck and dropping to a crouch, fumbling to get your phone out of your pocket. Your hands are slick with the sweat that only true terror can bring and it subsequently takes you three tries to swipe and unlock, takes you another few vital seconds to navigate to the Autobot panic button Ratchet had installed. You mash it repeatedly.

_Please, please work!_

A harsh cry from Airachnid makes you drop your phone. You scuttle forward on all fours, peek around the back end of your truck to find that she and Knock Out are locked together in a grapple at ground level. At your side Sheba is eerily silent, but her teeth are bared as she observes the chaos. She’s just as scared as you are. As you watch, Airachnid executes some kind of complex, flip-like maneuver, aided with her many limbs, that launches Knock Out into the air, away from her—

—and directly into your house.

You’re not given time to dwell on the amount of destruction wrought with that act, because Airachnid’s head swivels in your direction. You duck back behind your truck but it’s too late, because you hear the clinking sound of multiple limbs covering ground at alarming speed. You get to your feet and bolt away, racing toward your garden sheds with no real destination in mind other than away from her. You reach them, dart between them, feel a stupid, false sense of relief because at least there’s a small, flimsy obstacle between you now. You sense her behind you, make the foolish decision to turn your head, watch as she leaps onto the shed roof and spider-crawls her way across. You stumble and fall, flipping onto your back just in time to see her reach for you.

Sheba bounds forward, snarling, and knocks Airachnid’s arm aside. Retaliation is instant; she swats the dog away as easily as she would a fly. Sheba connects with the shed with a yelp that shreds your heart, collapses onto the ground. Her heroism buys you time to scamper out from underneath Airachnid, to get back to your feet. You make it maybe four feet before a purple energy shot scorches the earth in front of you, knocking you to the ground. You flop onto your back. Six thin limbs cage you, and you find yourself staring up at Airachnid’s coldly beautiful visage.

“You have some spunk,” she says. She braces herself on five legs, leaving the sixth to hover, knife-like, over your torso. “I enjoy it. It’s always more fun when they try to put up a fight.”

If you were at all capable of finding it right now, you might use your voice to point out that you haven’t tried to fight. You’ve only tried to flee. You doubt it will matter. You feel pain, sudden, searing, your eyes snapping downward to see that she’s cut through your shirt _and_ your skin to leave a crimson line up the length of your abdomen.

“I haven’t had much time to play around with your species,” she informs you over your high-pitched gasps of panic and pain, “but I’m a quick learner. The things we’ll experience together, Earthling… I think we’ll become _very_ good friends.”

A bolt of searing blue strikes her in the side and she’s bowled over, spider limbs curling inward protectively as she’s sent sprawling across your lawn. Your eyes snap to the side to find your rescuer, and recognition has you nearly sobbing in relief.

It’s Ultra Magnus.

Weapons trained on Airachnid, he shouts your name. You scrabble to your feet, wincing as movement pulls at the wound you’ve just sustained, and run toward him. It’s a familiar drill, this, to seek the sanctuary offered by his formidable presence and at any other time you’d be emotionally wounded by that recollection. One hand clutching your abdomen, you race between his legs and keep going, stopping only when you reach the tree line that borders your yard. You turn to find that that Airachnid is now standing on two splayed legs, her other limbs jutting outward from her back.

“Ultra Magnus,” she says, and there’s a mockingly seductive lilt to her words. “It’s been a very long time. You’re looking well. So virile and… robust.” When he doesn’t respond, her mouth twists into a parody of a pout. “You Autobots are so _boring._ At least Knock Out has some personality.”

“Thanks,” comes the voice of the Autobot in question, who has managed to circle around behind Airachnid with a stealthiness you didn’t know he had. He lunges, catching two of her spider limbs in his hands even as she attempts to writhe her way free. Ultra Magnus joins the fray, surging forward with the clear intent of subduing her. For a moment it looks as though the two Autobots have succeeded, but she fires her blasters suddenly at the ground, causing Ultra Magnus to stumble back. Knock Out gives the limbs he’s holding a savage twist, severing them both. Airachnid’s cry of pain rends the air, but despite her injuries she manages to dart away, between the sheds. Both Knock Out and Ultra Magnus give chase. You circle around the other way at an unsteady jog, but you come to a ragged halt as Airachnid leaps from the ground onto the remaining intact section of your house. In the span of seconds that follow she scans the yard, locates you, raises one arm in a salute before producing something from her subspace, dropping it through the hole in your roof, and launching herself into the air.

 _“GET DOWN!”_ Ultra Magnus shouts from where he stands, a directive meant for you and Knock Out both. You comply, dropping onto your stomach and crying out when the wound you’d forgotten about in the heat of the moment reminds you that it’s still there. You should cover your head, look away, but you can’t because you’re just realizing that the thing Airachnid dropped into your house looked an awful lot like a grenade.

You are correct.

Your house explodes.

**.x.**

“Earthling.”

You’re sitting on the edge of your lawn, your back pressed against the trunk of a tree. Cradled in your lap is Sheba’s head and you are running your fingers over it in slow, steady strokes. That’s the only part of you that is steady. You’re staring at the blackened shell of your home as tears stream down your face. Whatever Cybertronian incendiary Airachnid had used left no flames behind but you can still feel the heat from the blast even where you are seated. There are Autobots standing in a small group near the blast zone, speaking in hushed tones. Ultra Magnus, Optimus, Bumblebee, Smokescreen. Every now and then one of them glances toward you. Knock Out stands separate from them, off to one side. You’re aware that he’s watching you with an expression you’re sure he’s never worn before. You can’t find it in yourself to care right now.

Ratchet is standing near you. Airachnid had incapacitated him with her webbing, but hadn't harmed him. He repeats your name. You nod to acknowledge him, but you don’t look at him. You can’t tear your eyes from the devastation. A lifetime of comfort and security, of memories and hopes and dreams—it’s all gone now. All that is familiar and cherished and loved has been blasted right out of existence.

At your side, Ratchet kneels. His tone is very, very gentle. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know,” you respond. It comes out as a sob, followed by another quieter one. “Sheba’s hurt.”

Ratchet alters his size, moves closer so that he can reach out a hand to delicately touch the dog on her flank. She cringes, rolling her eyes back to look at him with obvious fear and pain and it shatters what’s left of you that hasn’t already broken. You start to cry in earnest, lowering your head. Sheba drags her tongue across the back of your hand, an attempt at comfort even after all she went through.

“She will be okay,” Ratchet reassures you. “I’ll make certain of it. I’m told she was very brave.”

“At least one of us was,” you manage to say between your loud sniffles.

Ratchet allows you time to weep, his patience right now an incredibly kind thing. When your tears eventually slow, his fingers settle on your shoulder to give you a consoling squeeze. “It’s time to go.”

You shake your head.

“Earthling…” He tips his head to the side to be able to see you clearly. You evade him, keeping your eyes fixed on your Sheba. He touches your face, guiding your head up until you have no choice but to look at him. The compassion in his gaze summons a fresh swell of tears and he blurs in your vision.

“Let me take care of you,” he entreats softly. You surrender to his concern, the concern of someone who loves you, the concern of a friend, of family. You let him take you by the hand. You let him carefully pull you upright. Sheba remains where she is, lying on the ground, but she gazes up at you with wounded reproach. You’re about to reach for her but Ratchet holds out an arm, shakes his head, and drops to a crouch beside her. He touches her on the head, awkward, unsure, and begins to stroke her the way you had been doing just minutes ago. She is still, very still, and then she reaches a decision and gives his fingers a quick, hesitant lick.

“Her leg,” you tell him. “I think that’s what’s hurting her.”

“I will be most considerate, then.” And you watch as he slowly and carefully lifts her into his arms. He cradles her large form easily, and though her expression as he turns is a dejected one she puts up no protest.

“Arcee, activate the ground bridge,” he says. Moments later and the tunnel burgeons into existence. Ratchet strides toward it. You don’t. Your eyes have found the wreckage of your house once more and a fresh swell of abject despair washes over you.

You’ve just lost your _home._

“Earthling.”

Ratchet’s gentle prompt gets you moving, one awful wooden step at a time. You follow him through the ground bridge, leaving the others to do whatever it is they feel they need to. Doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s all gone anyway.

At the base with the bridge closed behind you, you follow Ratchet to his lab, a procession of misery. Arcee looks down at you but you don’t meet her eyes. She knows what happened. You can’t handle commiseration or sympathy right now. Out of consideration for Sheba, Ratchet remains the size he is, laying her down on the floor with that particular tenderness inherent to someone who has spent a lifetime tending to others. He then turns to you.

“Let’s get you both fixed up,” he says, holding out his hand. You stare at it dully before dutifully approaching. You don’t say aloud what you are thinking.

_There’s no fixing this. Not this time._

**.x.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout to Meagan for letting me ramble on about all my TF fic ideas and helping me sort them out. Can't thank you enough. <3


	8. A chemical is what you are

Ratchet is able to mend the external wounds and he does so with a particular kindness you’re certain he doesn’t show to many. His relationship with June has made him softer in some ways, though you suspect he would deny it. He’s also acquired from her medical knowledge as it relates to humans, and he’s made use of that now, patching up the flesh wound Airachnid gave you while remaining mercifully silent. As for Sheba, he’s able to ascertain nothing is broken but instead is bruised, a welcome pinprick of news in the otherwise vast and unrelenting void of shittyness you now find yourself in.

You end up sitting on the floor with Sheba by your side. You don’t know what else to do. You should probably start making calls, figure out a way to explain what happened to your home in a way that makes it sound feasible to everybody who can’t know about the truth. You just can’t. It makes you tired to think of it. So you sit on the floor and try not to think. You’re aware that as he moves around his lab, Ratchet is also observing you. You should probably say something, but you lack the energy. Eventually he leaves, giving you space. You remain where you are, Sheba at your side.

The others return. You hear the ground bridge, hear their voices, hear their footsteps. Your name is mentioned. It’s Ratchet who responds, sharply and firmly, denying a request to see you. You’re grateful. Time passes. You curl up on the cold concrete of the floor. There are actual beds in the base, in a once-empty room, that are used by the human friends of the Autobots in the event of a lockdown. The thought of walking there, of being susceptible to their scrutiny, their pity, their well-meaning platitudes that you just can’t stomach right now—you can’t do it. So you stay here, think about your home—or horrible lack thereof—until you doze off.

Ratchet returns. He’s returned to his full size and he’s carrying with him a mattress, complete with bedding. He must have pulled it from the bunk room, knowing you didn’t want to venture out of this space. He sets it down on the ground in the corner, beneath an Autobot size lab table, and turns to look down at you with obvious concern.

“You need rest,” he says quietly.

You know you do. Still, the task of rising to your feet seems to require a gargantuan amount of energy. You do so anyway, Sheba rising with you, and make your way toward Ratchet. He watches as you walk to the mattress, as you lower yourself onto it while being sure to leave enough room for Sheba if she chooses. She declines, stretching out on the floor nearby. As your head hits the pillow Ratchet reaches down, and, to your astonishment, tucks you in.

“Thank you,” you whisper. More tears. They slide down over the bridge of your nose to dampen the pillow.

Ratchet’s smile is just simply kind. “Rest,” he directs you. You close your eyes.

**.x.**

You wake to the sound of arguing. You recognize the voices. Knock Out and Ultra Magnus. You want to bury your head beneath the pillow but it won’t help. You’re conscious now, and all your misery has come flooding back with that awareness. Sheba is awake too, head lifted, ears pricked in the direction of all the commotion.

“—you knew there was a risk.” Ultra Magnus. His voice is still so familiar—still so comforting, damnit—even heated as it is right now.

“I assumed the same that you did—that you _all_ did. I had no way of knowing she would find her way back here.”

Silence. When Ultra Magnus speaks next his voice is quieter, though no less furious. “And then she attacked you. Will you claim you knew there was no risk then?”

A sigh, impertinent and impatient. “Why don’t we cut to the chase, _Commander?_ You hate that I’m interested in Earthling and you hate even more that it’s reciprocated.”

You’re sitting upright now, staring holes through the lab wall and wishing you were literally anywhere fucking else.

“I hate,” Ultra Magnus grinds out, “that Earthling nearly died because of your unmitigated idiocy.”

 _Shit._ Shots fired. You find yourself on your feet, darting forward. Sheba tries to follow but you turn and raise your hand, palm out. _Stay._ She does so, but looks agitated. You know the feeling. You stray closer to the opening to the lab, footsteps hesitant now. You feel invasive, almost, except if they’re discussing you that makes it okay, right? You stop at the threshold without going over, look out into the operations area to find Ultra Magnus and Knock Out standing toe to toe. Their size discrepancy is emphasized, with Ultra Magnus staring down at his subordinate, Knock Out glaring right back.

“I wouldn’t have let—”

“She _was_ wounded! You didn’t prevent that!”

“I was—”

“If I—if _we_ had not arrived, Airachnid would have—”

“Good thing you were there to save the day then, isn’t it? Hoping your show of heroics will win her back?”

Some women, you’ve heard, like it when men fight over them. Today you’ve learned that you are not one of those women. Ultra Magnus’ hands clench into fists and you hold your breath, certain you’re about to witness Autobot on Autobot violence. You’re on the verge of stepping forward, piping up, when he speaks again.

“She made her choice,” he says, low enough to be almost guttural, “as did I. I will respect that decision even now, but I will also protect her. _Always._ It is a task you are clearly incapable of performing. Perhaps you lack the skill and conviction to look after anyone other than yourself!”

Knock Out punches him.

You gasp as Ultra Magnus is knocked back a step, and your following cry is lost in the clamor as he surges forward, grabs Knock Out by the shoulders, and savagely headbutts him. Energon decorates Knock Out’s face as he rips free, as his expression twists into one so vicious that it reminds you of the time he pursued you across a frozen lake with the intent of killing you. He drops into a fighting stance and begins to circle around Ultra Magnus, each step measured. This prompts another memory, the two of them looked in combat while you watched on from your very precarious perch in a tree. When he darts in to strike Ultra Magnus is ready, and while the larger Autobot’s first two punches are deflected, the third hits hard enough to send Knock Out reeling away.

_“ENOUGH.”_

Optimus. And Ratchet, you see, both striding forth quickly from the corridor that leads further into the base. Neither Knock Out or Ultra Magnus stand down immediately, both tensed and poised to launch themselves at each other.

“Stand down.” The displeasure in Optimus’ tone is thick enough to be bludgeoned with and it has the intended effect. The two combatants ease up, each backing away.

“I would have assumed both of you were better than this stupidity—” Ratchet begins with disgust, but then his eyes find you and he falls silent. It’s too late to backpedal but you really wish you could because they all look at you then, and you can tell by the expressions Knock Out and Ultra Magnus are wearing that they hadn’t known you were still in the lab.

“Earthling—” Ultra Magnus begins, while Knock Out drops his head and exhales, “Fuck.”

You turn your heel on them all and return to your bed.

**.x.**

Twenty-four hours later you are topside, seated on a concrete block near the helipad, staring out over the desert in a doomed-to-fail effort to ease the misery that’s gripping your heart. It’s hot. The sun’s shining too brightly. There are no trees. And worst of all, it’s not _home._

You think maybe you’re over the crying part of this particular type of loss. You’d done enough of it yesterday, to the point that you still feel drained, and a night of restless sleep didn’t help. You’re angry—no, you’re fucking furious—at everything and everyone, including the Autobots. What fucking sucks is that you can’t really be mad at them, because they have experienced what you’re currently experiencing, except on a global scale. They lost their planet. You lost a house. The perspective check doesn’t change how awful you feel, though, and you need to be alone to avoid lashing out at those who only mean well with their words. The only one you’re not resentful of at the moment is Ratchet, but he’s done enough for you over the past while that you think maybe he needs a break.

So, here you are, hating with every fiber of your being that you’re back here in Nevada—and likely will be for some time. Smokescreen and Bumblebee offered to look after Sheba, who, now that things have settled down, is more than happy to reacquaint herself with them. Aside from a limp, she’s fine. You’ll have to call Gage later to explain what happened, but you’re putting that off because then it means you have to think about… _everything._

You hear the sound of the lift approaching and honestly contemplate trying to hide behind a rock. You’re not ready to make conversation and you doubt your ability to do so without losing your shit, even if they don’t deserve it. Your mind starts to play a guessing game— _Who Can It Be?_ Ultra Magnus, your former lover? Knock Out, your (almost) current lover? Maybe both? You don’t bother to look when the lift comes to a halt, or when the concrete block you’re seated on trembles with the approaching footsteps of a Cybertronian. Maybe they’ll take the hint.

“May I join you?”

Optimus. Relief floods through you, followed immediately by irritation. You swallow it down, telling yourself that the blame lies elsewhere. But does it? How many little human tragedies have occurred simply due to proximity, physical or emotional, to the Autobots? You give a graceless shrug. He sits next to the block, one knee raised, the other leg outstretched. You're sitting with your own knees tucked close to your chest and your arms looped around them.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. You rest your chin on your arms and stare out morosely across the dusty, sandy expanse. You’re wallowing in self-pity and you know it, but you figure that given what’s happened you’re entitled to do so. The silence stretches on and you try to ignore the impossible to ignore presence at your side.

He stirs finally. “You are angry.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you care to express it?”

You turn your head slightly to look up at him. His eyes are fixed on the vista below. You don’t respond immediately, and when you do your voice is rough from hours spent mired in your own silent tribulation. “It won’t do any good. What’s done is done."

He’s quiet. You know what he’s doing, hate that you’re falling for it, even though part of you feels nothing but fondness for this giant metal titan, leader of the Autobots, who has made it his duty to check on your emotional welfare.

“I’m pissed off,” you say after a while, “at everyone. And I know that’s wrong, and that makes me even angrier.”

“You have the right to that anger.”

“What happened was—” and you stop yourself before saying something untrue, like ‘unavoidable’. Because it was avoidable. You could have avoided it by cutting all ties with the Autobots years ago. They could have avoided it by doing the same with you. And Knock Out—

“This is the not the first time you have been put in harm’s way due to us,” Optimus says heavily, “and I regret that you have yet again found yourself in a situation such as this.”

“I knew what I was signing up for.” And you had, and you’d done it anyway, because apparently you don’t learn from shitty past experiences.

“That does not make it acceptable.”

“But I have to accept it, right? Because this is my life. I know about Autobots. They’re a fixture in my life. Hell, I even fell in love with one of them.” Right on cue tears well up. You expel a short, brittle laugh. “But I care for all of you, my giant alien adoptive family. And I always will, even though…” You scrub at your eyes furiously. “Even though I just lost my _home._ And I know that you—I know that you all know what that’s like, because you lost Cybertron, but I’m just so fucking angry because right now I’m suffering, and the rest of you aren’t.”

Well, that’s about as honest as you can get. It makes you feel stupid and small and petty to voice it aloud, but it also somehow makes you feel a little bit better, which undoubtedly was his reasoning for speaking to you in the first place.

“I don’t mean to trivialize what happened to your world,” you add, giving up on your battle to suppress your tears. Your resulting sniffle is, in a word, inelegant, which of course fans the flames of emotional chaos currently funneling through your veins. “You lost a planet. I lost a fucking house. Not even remotely the same, but I just—I can’t—”

You take a shaking breath and lay your head against your knees and let the tears come, because there’s no fighting them off. A giant hand touches you gently, curves around you, and you take Optimus up on his offer of comfort, wrapping your arms around his thumb and clinging to it like the lifeline it is.

He says quietly, “The loss we have known does not lessen the significance of yours, Earthling.”

“It was just a house,” you sob, trying to convince yourself that that’s really all it was.

“It was your haven, a place in which you found solace and contentment. Your grief is acceptable. So is your anger.” He tightens his grip just enough that his palm is pressed against your back in what is effectively a full-size Autobot hug and it undoes you completely.

Minutes go by. He waits out your weeping with the infinite patience of a being older than humanity’s concept of time. When it tapers off you let go of his finger and lean back against his hand, wiping away accumulated snot and tears with the sleeve of your shirt, wait until you can breathe without hiccuping before you look up at him and ask, “How are you always so…?”

He waits with one lifted brow plate for you to finish.

“… amazing,” you sigh. “And reasonable. And chill? You just… you’re always so centered, Optimus.”

With a teasing lilt to his voice he inquires, “Are these things I should apologize for?”

You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “No. Never. You’re… you’re just so _good._ Kind. And you have the patience of a saint. I mean, you just let me cry and slobber all over you.”

“I am easily cleaned.”

You giggle, and are gifted one of his rare, small smiles in response. You look away, mopping your face again with your sleeve. Reluctant as you are to ruin this precious sliver of levity, there’s something you need to know. “How did you… how did you deal with it, after Cybertron…?”

“With anger and sorrow,” is his grave reply, “and later, with hope and determination.”

“Well, I’ve got the first half down.”

“In the aftermath of Cybertron’s destruction, we were aided greatly by the fact that we were not alone. We had each other, just as you now have us. You do not have to shoulder all of this on your own.”

“The thing is, Optimus, I know you’ve got bigger problems. And I’m—I’m tired of being a liability by merit of being born—”you gesture to your disheveled, snotty, weepy self.

“We do not begrudge you your humanity, which I think you know. Just as you ‘signed up’ for a life of potential risk by becoming part of our family, we willingly did the same.”

“There you go again,” you mutter, “being all reasonable.”

“My apologies,” he says, which coaxes a smile out of you. He goes on, “You will have our assistance in whatever steps you must take from here.”

“I need to figure out a cover story,” you say, and the very thought of that makes you feel incredibly weary. “Can’t tell the truth to my neighbours and insurance company.”

“In that regard, there is no need for concern. I have been in contact with Agent Fowler. He has offered to assist in dealing with the relevant authorities.”

“Fowler?” You blink up at him. “I was under the impression he _really_ didn’t like me.”

“I believe his outward demeanor often belies his true intent.”

“Huh. Well… that would be very helpful.”

“Ratchet has spoken to June. She has offered to cut their vacation short in order to return if they are likewise needed.”

June had taken the boys and headed up into Oregon and Washington for a couple of weeks, a final getaway before Jack went off to college and Raf returned to high school. You shake your head. “No, they should keep going. There’s nothing they could do anyway.”

“Have you contacted Isaac?”

Another head shake. “No. I’m going to do it later. Also have to call my neighbour—Sheba’s owner. And at some point—” you falter at the thought but manage to spit it out anyway, “—at some point I’m going to have to go back… there. Take stock and see if anything is… salvageable.”

“To assist with that, Ultra Magnus and Bumblebee have already returned to remove whatever wreckage may prove hazardous.”

You look up at him in surprise. “That’s… thank you.”

“We will be there to help you in any way necessary, no matter what you require.”

You lay your hand on his thumb in an attempt to impart your appreciation. “Once all that awful stuff is done, I’ll have to find someone to clear it all away. And then…”

“Rebuilding.”

“Right, rebuilding. Which I guess is something you’re already familiar with.”

Another small smile. “Yes, but on a significantly larger scale.”

“Okay.” You inhale deeply, blow your breath out slow. This isn’t the end of the world. It sucks horribly and it _hurts,_ but it could always be worse. There’s another line of thought you’ve been staunchly avoiding, but with Optimus here you suppose there’s no better time to rip the band-aid off. “Is Knock Out—is he in trouble for this?”

Optimus’ countenance grows solemn. “Despite the argument you overheard between he and Ultra Magnus, the responsibility for what has happened is shared by us all. Knock Out feels that we underestimated Airachnid’s determination to prove as meddlesome as possible. He is correct. When I sent him here, I believed she would remain on Cybertron and continue her harassment attempts. We did not expect she would go to the lengths she did in order to follow him here.”

“But after she attacked him…”

“He notified us immediately. You should know Knock Out advocated for telling you the truth. I ordered him not to.” Your frown carries a confused inquiry, which he replies to. “I did not wish for you to be caught up in the turmoil you have previously known. Airachnid made it a priority to begin targeting our mines here and I wrongly assumed that was her goal.”

Knock Out’s outright refusal to reveal the nature of his attacker now revealed, you find you have a great deal to think about. Perhaps sensing this, Optimus says, “She continued to visit our mines, likely having found their location when she manipulated our systems at our Iacon headquarters, with the clear intent of disrupting the flow of our energon supply. When we were all forced to return due to the storm, I believed we would be able to find and subdue her.”

“Earthling.” The sudden shift in his tone has you worriedly crossing your arms across your chest as you gaze up at him. “Knock Out would never knowingly place you in danger. No Autobot would.”

“I know that,” you say softly.

“Perhaps, when you are able, you can express that to him.”

“Is he okay?”

“He is… conflicted. Uncharacteristically so.”

“And I still need to talk to Ultra Magnus?” You make it a question, hoping he will say _nah, forget it._

But instead, he nods. “I believe you should.”

“God.” You lift both hands to your face and grimace against them. “What a mess this is.”

“One that can be rectified,” he tells you, patting your back consolingly with one large finger.

“Right. So… guess I’d better get started. But first I’d like to get a change of clothes and some other stuff because I assume I’ll be staying here for a while?” He nods. “Could I ask for one of you to take me into Jasper?”

“Smokescreen or Bumblebee will likely be happy to do so.”

“Okay.” You get to your feet and Optimus pulls his hand back only to hold it out flat in an offer to carry you. “Not quite yet,” you tell him. “I need a few more minutes. Also—thank you for… doing this. For talking to me. You have no idea how much it means.”

His head dips in earnest acknowledgment of your gratitude. “You are welcome.”

You listen as he walks back to the lift, as the lift begins its descent. You listen and you think and try hard to find the resolve you will need to get you through the coming days.

“This sucks,” you say aloud, because it does. Time to deal with it like an adult.

**.x.**

Two hours later, showered and in possession of new clothes and toiletries courtesy of the emergency monetary stash you’ve kept here at the base due to certain events in the past, you go looking for Ultra Magnus. The bathroom/shower facilities are located on the furthest edge of the base, and you have ample time as you navigate the huge corridors to think about what needs to be said. You facilitate between _nothing_ and _everything_. Your hair is still kind of wet—nerves made you do a less than thorough job of toweling it—and it’s created an uncomfortably damp spot on the back of your brand new blue shirt. You’re stressing so hard about how to discreetly ask Ultra Magnus to talk without alerting the other Autobots to what’s going on that when you finally reach the operations area and find that he’s standing there alone that you’re almost nonplussed.

He takes note of you immediately. You stare at each other and you’re beset by heartache that’s more familiar than the kind you’ve so recently become accustomed to, the kind that resulted from the destruction of your home. Even if this space were crammed full of Autobots right now, it would still only feel like you and he existed alone in a space outside of time.

You have to speak. You need to speak. You really, really don’t want to though. _Buck up, girl,_ you think to yourself.

“I think we need to talk,” you announce. It doesn’t please you to hear how timid you sound.

“So do I,” he says.

_Here we go._

**.x.**

In order to avoid interruption, the conversation takes place in one of the barracks a fair distance from the operations area. He did not offer to carry you there as you so feared; instead he utilized mass-displacement and walked alongside you. Neither of you spoke for the duration, though your internal dialog was deafening enough. Once within the barracks, the door closed, you pace an uncertain circle before taking a seat on the edge of one of the bunks. The temptation to become selectively mute is incredibly appealing, but the only way out of this is to power through.

“Thank you for yesterday,” you tell him. It’s hard to look at him but you do it anyway, watch as he leans against the wall and loosely crosses his arms. _He still makes casual poses look sexy as fuck,_ your brain unhelpfully notifies you. You clear your throat. “If you hadn’t been there…”

“I’m glad I arrived in time.”

God, how are you supposed to do this? What are you supposed to say? “Have you been well?”

“I have.”

“That’s good,” you say with an inward wince. This is beyond torture. “I’m sorry about the storm… Optimus told me. It’s not fair, not after all you guys went through. I hope it passes quickly."

“All evidence indicates it likely will not, but… thank you.”

“Earth isn’t so bad,” you offer weakly, a laughable attempt to lighten a mood heavier than osmium. “Surely there are worse places to have a secondary home?”

Your words, unsurprisingly, fall flat, and the mention of a home reminds you of the status of yours. You drop your head, focus miserably on the laces in your shoes.

“Earthling… I am sorry for what happened.” His voice has gentled. You close your eyes against the salvo of recollections that particular vocal timbre sends your way.

“Yeah,” you say, not looking up, “Me too.”

“We will do whatever we can to help.”

“I know. Optimus said. Thanks.” You straighten up, look at him head on. This is fucking stupid. Either you say what you need to say or this exercise in extreme awkwardness will never end. He meets your gaze steadily, apparently far more equipped to deal with this than you are.

“It hurts to see you,” you say baldly. Your right hand has developed a sudden tremor and you fist it against your thigh. “I thought—after two years, I thought it wouldn’t.”

“How could you have known if it would trouble you?” he asks evenly. “You made every possible effort to avoid being in my presence.”

Wow. He doesn’t sound angry, he doesn’t look angry, he hasn’t raised his voice but it sure feels like he’s angry. “We agreed,” you remind him. “We agreed that it would be easier if we didn’t see each other in the aftermath.”

“And how long was that supposed to last? Another couple of your years, or indefinitely?”

You look at him in disbelief. “What was I supposed to do? I did what I thought I had to to get over you, to move on. I didn’t want to spend all of my days crying over you—I had enough of those as it was! What did you expect me to do?”

But he shakes his head, pushing away from the wall. “There is no point in discussing this.”

He strides toward the door and you stare after him, dumbfounded. He has never in your entire history of knowing him walked away from a discussion, even a heated one. He has never dismissed you so easily, so…. _callously._ You’re on your feet going after him before you even realize it, grabbing him by the arm. He halts but only half-turns, his eyes on your hand and then flicking to your face.

“You said you thought we needed to talk,” is what you blurt out. “So how did you envision this going?”

He’s slow to respond and when he does his voice is quiet, reluctant. “Your presence is just as wounding to me.”

 _I’m sorry,_ you want to blather. There’s another part of you, a part you’re not proud of, that feels malicious jubilation to know he’s hurting just the way you are.

“Does that matter to you, Earthling?” he asks, dipping his head a little to be able to look you straight in the eyes. All the little things you’d loved about him are rushing back to you—the stern, noble set of his face and the deeply perceptive glow of his beautiful eyes, and it’s the latter bit right now that has you rooted to the spot, unable to speak.

You could tell him the truth and maybe you should. _I still love you. I wish we had chosen differently._ There’s a voice somewhere in the depths of your mind that is screaming at you to lay it all bare, to spill how you really feel. Other parts of you are fighting back against it. Perhaps he reads the internal struggle in the expressive lines of your face, because he gives his head a slow shake, sighs, and pulls his arm free.

“Are you—is this about Knock Out?” you blurt as he takes a step.

He comes to an immediate halt, but doesn’t turn. “Whatever happens or has happened between you both is none of my concern.

He leaves. Once outside the room he transitions to his full size, and the ground trembles as he walks away. You’re besieged by rage, by sorrow, by frustration, and none of them seem the correct response to what happened. You feel the all too familiar sting of tears at the back of your eyes and grind the heels of your palms against them as though that will stop it.

_Optimus, you were wrong._

**.x.**

Night. Smokescreen convinced you to let Sheba stay with him, enamoured with the idea of being able to recharge whilst cuddling a dog. You, on the other hand, can’t sleep. You want things you can’t have. You want things you shouldn’t. Rather than lay on your back staring up at the ceiling at waiting for evasive sleep, you crawl out your cot and go looking for Ratchet. He’s a bit of night owl, as Autobots go, and sometimes he’s in the mood to chat. Even if he’s not, there’s something about his presence that you need right now. His grouchy ass is one you’ve become quite fond of, though he’s shown that he’s a softy underneath—or maybe that’s just for the people he really cares about. Like you.

So you traverse the interior of the base, gritty-eyed from lack of sleep, replaying your truncated conversation with Ultra Magnus, reliving the destruction of your home, trying to come to terms with… well, what are you trying to come to terms with? Too much. There’s too much to deal with. You just want the tempest whirl of thoughts and feelings in your head to stop. If there were alcohol in the base, you’d drink until blackout.

You turn a corner and find Knock Out approaching.

You stop. He doesn’t. He halts in front of you, kneels down, and for a moment it’s just this, just the two of you looking at each other. His countenance is impassive, but between your own knowledge and Optimus’ words, you know he’s experiencing guilt concerning what happened with Airachnid. You still don’t know how you feel about all that, except it is, like everything else, too much.

Finally he says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been avoiding everyone.”

“You have good reason too,” he acknowledges. “Earthling—”

“I don’t want to talk.”

Your blunt statement silences him, and he looks at you with a frown. You go on, “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to forget for a few minutes, an hour, a day.” You stop, suck in a deep breath, and conclude with, “Do you understand?”

His eyes roam over your face. You endure his scrutiny calmly, face uplifted, exposing your features so that he can see that what he’s looking for isn’t actually there. When his eyes find yours again, he gives his response in a softer tone than you’ve ever heard him use before. “Yes.”

He holds out his hand. You step onto it. As he lifts you he asks, “Where are you sleeping?”

**.x.**

This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen. This isn’t how you’d imagined it. Maybe that’s better, though, because now you don’t feel like you have to adhere to some script your imagination churned out. You’re the first through the door and behind you he collapses in on himself. That script you’d used as fantasy fuel, it had been lengthy. Drawn out. An exposition with an abundance of flowery prose. You decide to skip forward, drawing your shirt over your head as you turn to face him, tossing it to land on the bed. He ducks to fit in the door and stops at the sight of you, topless, braless, shimmying your brand new pajama shorts down your hips. The raw appreciation in his gaze causes instant goosebumps.

You issue an order. “Close the door.”

He does, maybe with a bit more effort than required as it slams. You leave your shorts pooled on the floor and step out of them. You’re naked and he closes the gap between you with impressive speed. His hands lift, hesitate for a fraction of a second before settling on your body. They’re cold enough to provoke a reaction, a gasp that he takes from you in a swift, hungry kiss. You’d been worried he’d delay, ask you all the questions you don’t want to hear, but apparently your message got through. Metal fingers swiftly sweep their way up your side until they find your breast and you can tell it’s just as novel as the first time because he breaks the kiss to look down. His other hand mirrors his actions until he’s cupping both of them. Knock Out is breast man.

He strums his thumb over a nipple and this unfamiliar, aggressive lust you’re feeling converges, pools as an ache between your legs, incites shivers. He says with a tinge of charming wonder, “These are…”

“Tits.”

His laugh is the same but different, throaty and laced with eagerness. He tears his eyes from that part of your anatomy and cups your chin, sliding a finger between your parted lips. Your tongue darts forward, tasting it. His approval is an abrupt increase in the already loud roar of his fans, along with a sound almost like a groan. He rests his head against yours.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Should be pretty obv—”

“Tell me.” He interrupts. The hand on your chin tightens, fingertips digging into your flesh. “I want to hear it.”

You comply. “You,” you say, swallow a startled, wispy cry as he snakes an arm down between you. Fingers part flesh and it takes him no time at all to find your clit; he’s a fast learner. He stops moving suddenly, waiting for the rest of it and it spills out of you, primal need in word form. “You and your spike.”

“Where?” A simple, quick adjustment of his hand and there are two fingers delving into you and your breath slides out of you in a hiss, even though you’re slick, because it’s a lot and it’s been a while. His next question flows hot over your lips as he draws his fingers out, slowly pushes them back in. “Here?”

“There,” you confirm shakily.

He kisses you as he fucks you with his fingers and he’s not gentle about it, the pressure almost bruising, teeth closing on your lower lip hard enough for it to sting. He could get you off this way, yes, easily, but it would take too long and besides, it’s not his spike. Right on cue he pulls out of you, pulls away from you, taking two steps back. He lifts his hand and his fingers glisten with _you_ and you watch, hands clenched, as he slides first one and then the other into his mouth, thoroughly sucks them clean. _Oh, god._

“On the floor,” he growls.

You guess the bed isn’t up to task. You kneel on the cold concrete and envision the bruises you are about to obtain. He strides to the bed, rips the top blanket off, tosses it next to you. How considerate. You straighten it out with, crawl onto it, rear back as he drops to his knees in front of you. His spike is exposed and you have to swallow an admiring expletive at the sight, girth and length enhanced by its glinting crimson biolights. His equivalent of precum is visible at the tip and you long to taste it, to lose yourself in memorizing the shape of him in your mouth, in your hands, in your cunt. New memories to erase the older ones, the ones that hurt _too much—_

He grabs you when you reach for his spike, a hand on your wrist. You expect him to push you down and you are more than willing, so when he lays flat on his back you are momentarily bewildered until he reaches around, grabs you by the ass, and pulls you astride. “Oh,” is what you murmur, reaching down to better position him. His spike twitches as your fingers wrap around it and you can’t help but rub a thumb over the tip, to feel the wetness there. Beneath you he shudders, fingers gripping your ass hard enough that you wince. His spike is long enough that you have to rear back to align him, and once you feel him enter you lean forward, brace yourself with your hands splayed flat on his chest, and slide down quicker than you probably should because discomfort abruptly shoots through you. He’s big and you’re not as ready as you thought. Any second thoughts you’re having are non-negotiable—as you hesitate his hands slide around, grip your hips, jerk you down.

“Ah, fuck!” you gasp, while at the same time he growls your name. He is filling you so completely that it’s hard to breathe and you can feel him throb as he rocks his hips, as his hands pull you into the rhythm with him. You let him guide you for several seconds before you grab his wrists to pull his hands up to your tits. He cups them, kneads them, rolling your nipples in a way that has you squeezing your eyes shut as you start to ride him a little harder. The discomfort is still there but it’s easing, pushed aside by the slow rolling waves that have you panting now, that make you drop your head and open your eyes. He’s looking at you, his expression one of intense satisfaction, lips quirked in _that_ smirk. You love it as much as you hate it, the way he’s watching you like he knows everything about you, and you cover his face with your hand. His tongue, lissome, cool, smooth, snakes out to glide against your palm. Your surprised bleat pleases him; he bucks his hips upward and your breath explodes out of you.

“Earthling,” he grunts, the word muffled by your hand. The way his lips move against your palm makes you shiver. He raises an arm, knots his fingers in your hair. He pulls you down until your breasts are pressed against him, until your mouth hovers over the back of your hand. You slide it away, trailing your fingers over his mouth, unable to keep from sliding one in. His lips fasten around it, sucking, and the resulting tidal rush of feeling has every muscle in your body clenching.

 _“Hnn,_ Primus, Earthling!” His groan is low, unchecked, and it drives you wild. It’s hard for you to set the pace like this, face to face, so he does it instead, thrusting into you with each violent roll of his hips. You kiss him so fiercely that you feel your lip split, taste the tang of blood a second later. You wonder if he can taste it. You wonder if he likes it.

“So fucking hot,” he rumbles, and you know he’s talking about temperature over appearance, the warmth of you opposed to the coolness of him. Bracing one hand on his chest you push yourself up, sink down onto him until he can go no further and you hold yourself there, exulting in it. Your head is angled back and you lock down the line of your body to see him watching you, eyes blazing more intensely than you’ve ever seen, ex-venting with the effort of keeping still, of letting you have this moment. The strength of his racing fans sends vibrations throughout the entirety of his frame and you can feel them in every part of you. Your right hand finds his chin and you push his head back, exposing the cabling beneath his neck. You watch as they go taut.

“What are you gonna do?” you ask him, teasingly imperious because you feel like you own him right now.

“Cum in you,” is his choked response, your hand still pushing his head back. “Fill you.”

 _God._ You grit your teeth against the rush of want that floods through you. “And then?”

“Fuck you again. As many times as I can. Until you hurt. Until you beg me not to.”

“Good,” you breathe, rocking your hips so that he slides out, in, out again. “Good,” you say as you pull your hand away from his chin, as he grabs your hips. He rams his spike into you, once, twice, and you cry out, _“Please!”_

He obeys, pounding up into you with surging thrusts and you aid him with your own wild movements, chasing the euphoria that hovers so close. When you come it is so powerful that you pitch forward, sprawling across him and he follows immediately, clutching you tightly as his spike empties inside you, each pulse stronger than the last. When it’s over you’re motionless for a little while, breathing hard, but then the sensation of an impending cramp in your right thigh prompts you to move. You untangle yourself, pulling up and off of him, and find that your legs are almost asleep. He sits up, steadies you as you almost stumble.

“Thanks.” Your voice is thready.

Moisture trickles down your thigh, Day-Glo blue Autobot cum. Knock Out watches as it traces a path toward your knee, and when he lifts his eyes to you his smug expression is entirely warranted. “Told you.”

You huff a laugh. “Dick,” you say, deciding you don’t want to stand after all. You settle on your side next to him, pillowing your head on your arm. You’re filled with that silly post-coital contentment and you decide to indulge in it. “So, was it everything you hoped?”

“Better,” he says, and it makes you smile to hear how raspy he sounds. He props himself up on his elbow, looks down at you. “I knew it would be incredible between us.”

“Arrogant,” you remark.

He grins and corrects you. “Confident. Deservedly so, if the sounds you made are any indication.”

“What about the sounds you made?”

“Sexy, of course.”

Another amused exhale from your nostrils. “Of course.”

“So,” he says, reaching for your right hand where it’s currently laid against your thigh. He takes your fingers in his.

“So?”

“How long?” he asks, pulling your hand toward him, toward his spike—which, you see with an approving hum, is standing in performance position.

“How long what?” you gamely inquire as he presses your palm against the length of him. You close your fingers one by one, flexing each digit, and are rewarded as his eyes flicker in pleasure. You start to stroke him, firm, slow, deliberate.

“Until you’re ready for another round,” he grits out, letting his head rest against the ground.

“Soon, I think,” you whisper, tightening your hold and watching as a tremor wracks his frame. “Very soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed the previous story and are enjoying this one, I implore you to check out the related work written by Candlewhacks that is linked below.


	9. This horrible mess that I made

Hours later, thoroughly exhausted and sore from the rigors of being fucked by Knock Out, you start to withdraw.

You knew this window of relief from your troubles was only temporary. You knew reality would intrude when the euphoria wore off. Knock Out knew it, too, so when you pull away from him and wrap the blanket around you and go to sit on the edge of the bed, he merely watches. Says nothing for a good long while until he does.

“You want me to go.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is soft, cracked on the edges. You think about apologizing but don’t. He knew what this was. He knew you were using him. He was using you, too. You tell yourself that and try not to feel guilty as he gets to his feet, as he turns toward the door, as he pauses to look back at you. You’re a fucking coward, so you just hang your head rather than look at him.

He’s almost to the door when the words leave you, unplanned and unbidden. “I used you.”

“You can use me any time.”

It makes you laugh, but that laugh dies abruptly and you find yourself besieged by tears, your mouth twisting. You catch your breath, keep your head low, blink rapidly to keep the tears from escaping until you hear him leave, close the door, walk away and then you hunch over, bury your face in your hands, and unravel. This isn’t  _ you. _ You’re not a person who does this, except you just did. You wanted it. You wanted him. But your life is a series of interwoven knots right now, your heart in tatters, your home destroyed, your future uncertain, and what you just did with Knock Out added another knot with a thousand fucking threads. You are strangling yourself. You’re self-destructing.

You’re familiar with this cannonade of negative emotion, as much as you wish you weren’t. You went through it all when your husband died. It’s different but the same, this time, because losing a house isn’t the same as losing a partner but you  _ did _ lose a partner, didn’t you? You lost Ultra Magnus, and now he’s back. And you still love him. And he—

Wrapped in your blanket, your skin marked with teethmarks and bruises and the Cybertronian equivalent of dried semen, you cry yourself to sleep.

**.x.**

You bridge to your home two days later.

You’re not alone. Ultra Magnus, Optimus, Bumblebee and Sheba have accompanied you, filling the various roles of bodyguard and emotional supporter. You knew it would be bad, and it is. It’s so bad that when you see the devastation your breath flies out of you in an ugly, pained gasp and you clutch at your stomach. It’s just a heap of charred rubble. All your things—all your memories—all you need…  _ gone. _

Bee alters his size, hurriedly slings an arm under your arm and across your back, inviting you to lean on him. You do, resting your head on his shoulder, staring at what used to be. He beeps his condolences, low and soft, his hold on you tightening.

“I am sorry, Earthling,” Ultra Magnus says quietly.

You gather yourself eventually, push away from Bee and walk a slow circuit around the wreckage, Sheba by your side. You’ve cried out the day’s supply of tears, seems like, because you’re dry-eyed now. The Autobots let you do what you need, withdrawing to the edge of the yard while keeping a watchful eye on you. You stop here and there, your brain reconstructing a piece of scorched siding or a lone shingle or a huge pane of glass into what it was once part of. As Optimus had said, Bee and Ultra Magnus had already been here, shifting the larger, more hazardous pieces away, piling them near your garden shed for disposal. If you wanted, you could wade into the thick of it now. You could go and sift through ash and burnt timbers and look for anything that may have survived. You could, but you can’t. Not yet.

After you finish your revolution Bee comes to you. He beeps an inquiry and you nod  _ yes, of course, _ because today is the day Sheba goes home. You give them time, dog and Autobot, retreating to your mayday tree and sitting under it, trying and failing to look at anything other than what had once been your house. Maybe it’ll stop hurting the longer you look at it, you think. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.

Bee and Sheba play. They play and it makes you smile, a welcome thing. Her injury apparently isn’t troubling her too much now as she’s able to run and jump and spin with ease. Sheba loves Bee and he adores her. He chases her and she zooms around the yard with a careless abandon you wish you were capable of experiencing right now. Later, when Sheba’s tired out, Bee bids her a mournful farewell. She seems to sense the time has come and gives him a soulful gaze. With your emotions treading close to the surface as they are, when he wraps her in a hug and presses his cheek against her head, you have to turn away and wipe at your eyes.

Your truck is still in one functioning piece (you had a spare set of keys hidden on a hook in the gutter of one of your sheds), and you use it to drive Sheba to her home with Bee and Ultra Magnus trailing behind. The Autobots won’t let you go anywhere anymore with an escort, and you suppose that will be the case until Airachnid is dealt with, or maybe even after. When you pull into Gage’s driveway, the two of them pull off into the ditch on the main road and go silent. If you need them, all you need to do is alert them via phone.

Gage’s house is a rambling one-story that’s old and well-tended, his yard large and occupied by towering spruce trees. He and his son are waiting for you, Gage supporting himself with a walker and looking better than you’d hoped after his surgery. You’d called to explain what had happened to your house (propane explosion) and that Sheba had been hurt. You can tell by the expression on his face as his dog jumps down from your truck that he was very worried. She returns to her owner, infused with fresh joy and zeal at seeing him, racing circles around first him, and then his son, and then the yard.  _ She’s happy to be home, _ you think, and then swallow against a wave of grief because that sentiment is one you won’t know again for the foreseeable future.

You stay awhile and talk, inquire after Gage’s health, field their questions about the decimation of your home. You mechanically repeat the story Fowler had given you, answering them with the false answers you’d been given or else shrugging, saying you don’t know. It’s clear you’re not okay and Gage remarks on it, but you shake your head and muster a smile and tell him you’ll be alright soon. You spin another yarn, telling him you’re going to stay with Isaac until insurance figures out everything and you can rebuild, and then it’s time to go. You give Gage a heartfelt hug, shake his son’s hand, and then say your goodbye to Sheba.

You kneel and scratch behind her ears, smiling at the look she gives you. Those amber eyes are truly the window to her soul. She protected you against a formidable, unknown threat. She never abandoned you. She fought for you. You owe her a great deal, and you resolve to shower her with gifts and attention when you’re able to return.

You follow Bee and Ultra Magnus back to your place after you leave, whereupon a ground bridge opens. Optimus has already returned. You drive through it, a first for you even after all these years, and once at the base you park in the designated “human vehicle area.” You’re out of your truck and heading toward the barracks even as the others are transforming. You want to be alone.

**.x.**

Two days later and you still can’t sleep. You’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to again without an aid. You have one, as it turns out, and in the middle of the night you go looking for him again. He’s in the operations area, clearly just returning from somewhere. He crouches in front of you, tilts his head, considers you carefully. You haven’t spoken to him since the night you spent together.

You endure his scrutiny in silence. When he’s done, he says, “Let’s go for a drive.”

**.x.**

Knock Out takes you to a place unremarkable save for the vista of the midnight sky. It is safe, relatively, for you to leave; yesterday Ratchet cracked Airachnid’s method of disguising her biosignature — it’s based on the technology behind the Nemesis’ molecular masking field. All Autobots now carry an emitter that can scramble her masking generator. You’re not far now from the base even should something happen, and Knock Out apparently believes the risk is low.

He transforms and you watch as he displaces his mass, a blurred change that takes place in the blink of an eye. You let him reach for you. You let him touch you. You let him trail a thumb across the line of your jaw, let him slide his palm around the back of your neck. When he slowly tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your head back and glances at you for permission, you give him a nod to let him know he can do that, too. His mouth is on yours and it’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s demanding and brutal and it’s the kind of feeling you need right now. Your lip splits again, a sharp pain that you savor because… well, because everything is all fucked up.

He doesn’t ask for permission again. He doesn’t need it. He knows what you need. You’d already told him. You respond to his touch and his words and his mouth with a hunger that’s unlike desire as you used to know it. You wonder what that means. He shoves a hand down your shorts, rough and insistent, coaxes from you a stuttering moan. Later, when you’re on your knees in the dirt and he’s working himself into you, you slide your own hand down to work at your clit. He likes that you’re doing this – you hear the thunder of his chassis fan as it starts to overclock, a thrumming you feel as he pushes further into you, as he drapes himself over you. His weight bears you down until your cheek is pressed against Nevada soil, your free hand scrabbling against rock and bits of sagebrush as he shoves himself into you roughly. The way he fills you, the way he stretches you—it brings you to the cusp very quickly and it’s your own fingers that push you over the brink. You writhe in the dirt as you come and he pushes your head down, fucks you even harder.

When he finishes minutes later it’s with a groan you wish you could bottle, a gritty, primal sound that grazes wetly against your ear as his spike convulsively empties with you. He doesn’t collapse onto you, instead holds himself upright with both arms. You lay where you are, one arm still trapped beneath your body, the other outstretched. You are dirty and you’re pretty sure your knees have road rash and yet you feel… good. In this moment, in this place away from everything familiar, you are okay. You close your eyes.

Knock Out shifts. You feel his hand slide along the length of your outstretched arm, open your eyes to see his fingers threading through yours. He’s still inside you. His mouth nuzzles at your neck, at the lobe of your ear, and then he speaks.

“Tell me you’re okay,” he whispers.

It makes you smile, this bit of softness. He’s game to give you a rough dicking whenever you need it but he cares for you in other ways. When you don’t say anything immediately he moves, sliding over you until his head pops into view next to yours. He sees your smile and gives you one in return, but it carries within it a hint of uncertainty and worry. It makes you melt a little.

“I’m okay,” you affirm in a voice made raspy by what just transpired.

His smile grows, takes on its crooked edge. He pushes himself up, off, and out of you, rolling over onto his back, crossing his arms behind his head. You move just enough to pull your arm out from underneath you, so that you can pillow your head on it while you watch him. His eyes are on the sky, moving languidly from one glowing ball to another. You study his profile, all the confident angles that compose his face, the faint glow from his crimson eyes and the upward tilt of the corner of his mouth. He’s gorgeous, which he knows, and in that moment those eyes flick sideways to look at you.

“Like what you see?”

“Hmm,” is your noncommittal answer. 

He grins, lets his eyes rake down the length of you. “I too am enjoying the view.”

Your answer is a muffled snort as you brush your mouth against the length of your arm. You’re naked from the waist down, your shorts tangled up around your ankles, your T-shirt bunched up under your breasts. You can feel the dirt caked on your elbows and knees, are pretty sure you have bits of sagebrush tangled in your hair. You are the furthest thing from gorgeous right now, but he still makes you feel as though you are. He sits up, reaches out to gently touch a finger to the base of your spine and ghost it up the length until it slips under your shirt. You shiver and stiffen. This kind of intimacy—it hurts. It’s too much like what you knew once upon a time with Ultra Magnus.

Knock Out can sense your drop in mood, apparently, because he withdraws his touch, lays back down, eyes on the sky once more. You turn your head to face him again. Silence falls and the two of you dwell within the realms of your own thoughts.

“I know you’ll never love me,” he says finally, “at least not the way you do him.”

You’re startled by his statement. You don’t know what to say, scrabble to find a response. Your first instinct is to lie but he deserves better than that. He’s been honest with you since all this started, save for what Optimus forbade him to say.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can offer.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says glibly, and you wonder what that tone is hiding. He rolls his head to the side until he can look at you straight on. “I knew what this was.”

_ I didn’t, _ you think.  _ I still don’t. _ Instead you reach for him, run your fingers along the line of his jaw. “We don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” he says with a smile. “I’m getting what I want. Am I selfish for not wanting that to change?”

“By definition, yes,” you reply. Your fingers are still tracing lines across his jaw. He moves his head, just a little, so that they’re pressed against his mouth.

“Guess I’m greedy then,” he says, lips grazing your fingertips, and then he parts them to let one slip in. His mouth tightens, sucking, and you feel an answering surge of lust roll through you.

“Guess so,” you whisper.

It’s almost dawn by the time he returns you to base.

**.x.**

Four more days. You hear from Ratchet that June and the boys are enjoying themselves, but if you need them, they’ll come home. Your answer is _ no, keep going, have fun. _ The daylight hours you spend trying to do something—anything—that keeps you from dwelling on the awful things. You spend all of those nights alone, save one. He seeks you out this time. You’re eager to feel him.

Optimus informs you that Fowler has arranged to have most of the wreckage cleared from your place. What remains are things that could possibly be salvaged and he asks you if you’re up to the task. You lie and say yes. You have to face it sometime. Two hours later and you’re standing in your yard yet again, accompanied by Smokescreen, protected by the still active—and recently upgraded—defensive system.

“I’ll be right here,” Smokescreen tells you kindly. “If you need help with anything, just let me know.”

Your voice betrays your current state of mind, strained and thin. “I will, thanks.”

Your steps as you approach the blackened pile are leaden. Your stomach sinks with every step you take. You soldier on, only becoming aware that you’re clenching your jaw when you feel an ache in your teeth. The deck stairs are whole, albeit charred, the deck not so much. You climb them carefully, step up onto a piece of intact flooring, and look around. The bots had moved the worst of it. What’s here now is just… debris. You swallow hard, shuffle forward, watch as your feet leave tracks in the ash. In some places the floor has been compromised by the blast. Someone—one of Fowler’s people?—has cordoned off those sections with bright yellow “DANGER” tape.

In what remains of the living room you find a couple of intact books beneath the overturned, seared bulk of your leather couch. You crouch, pull them out, brush off the covers. Two of Juliet Marillier’s latest that you had yet to read. You flip through them and find they are still entirely readable. You look around, set them aside, and continue to search.

The pile grows a little as an hour passes. A frame holding a picture of you and Isaac and your parents when you were kids has survived. All you need to do is replace the shattered glass. You locate a little brass clockwork bumblebee ornament tucked into a corner, hidden by a shelf knocked loose from your entertainment center. The lap blanket knitted by your grandmother many years ago is still in one piece, but you’re unsure the smell of fire will ever wash out. You keep searching, every movement mechanical, your thoughts locked on cataloguing what’s here and what’s gone. It’s a good way to keep the grief at bay.

Until you reach your room.

Three walls are gone. There’s just the hardwood floor partially covered by pieces of roof, bits of singed drywall, and insulation. Your bed… well, it’s in pieces. You stare around but don’t cross the threshold, blinking rapidly, feeling your control rapidly eroding. This is too  _ hard—  _

“Earthling.”

You suck in a deep breath, startled, whip around to see a mass-displaced Ultra Magnus approaching. Your first instinct, alarmingly, is to throw yourself at him, to seek comfort in his embrace as you so often did in this very spot. You have to curl your hands into fists in order to suppress the urge.

His words are tentative. “I came to offer assistance, if you need it. I know this can’t be easy.”

“Hah,” is your wavering exhale. Your eyes brim. You don’t bother to avert your face. He’s seen you cry before. You inhale deeply once, twice, and then you have the strength to say, “It’s not easy, no. And I—I could use the help. Please.”

You see Smokescreen walking the perimeter of your yard, clearly giving the two of you space to do this. You turn around to face the wreckage of your room and feel yourself start to crumble. Ultra Magnus steps up beside you.

“I will move whatever you need,” he says.

“Okay,” you whisper. You’re aware that he lifts his hand as though to lay it against your back. He checks the movement.

You take a few seconds to just simply breathe before you move forward. He follows. You kneel, wipe away the detritus from the explosion to find whatever may be underneath. You find some things. Little things. Trinkets, a comb, a necklace, a tiny round stuffed unicorn. You work your way over to the corner where your closet used to be and find it blocked by the heat-warped doors. Ultra Magnus, intuiting what you haven’t yet said, steps up and detaches the doors easily, granting you access. The bulk of your clothing is ruined, dingy with soot, smelling of smoke. You finger the sleeve of your favorite blue hoodie from the college you’d attended. A ratty, worn piece of clothing to be sure, but one you derived comfort from. It’s no good now. You take what you may be able to salvage, toss it to land with the other items in the pile. Done with the closet you sink down onto the floor, rubbing a hand over your face.

“Thank you,” you say to Ultra Magnus. “This… this fucking sucks. I didn’t want to do it alone.”

“I’m glad I’m able to assist.”

And he means it. You know he does. You tilt your head back to look at him standing in front of you, see etched in the planes of that stoic face hints of sadness on your behalf. Such a thing has the very real power to undo you.

“Will you rebuild here?” he asks, as though sensing the need for a diversion.

“Yeah,” you say. “Even though the house is—is gone… this is still home, you know?”

“I do.” He offers you a small, encouraging smile.

At one point, he’d called this place  _ his _ home. Jesus fucking Christ, your brain is one hundred percent intent on walking you down the Path of Painful Remembrance at what is most definitively the worst possible time. That, combined with his smile—you look down, avert your eyes. Can a tattered heart be shredded further? Turns out the answer is yes, because you’ve fucked Knock Out and it has just made things so much more complicated.

“I need to ask you something,” you say. Your voice trembles.

It’s a heartbeat before he speaks. “What is it?”

“Did you mean it, what you said about Knock Out and I?” You lift your chin to look at him again, to see his expression has smoothed into its typical impassive set. “Do you…”  _ God, _ are you really going to ask this? “It doesn’t bother you?”

You half-expect him to turn and walk away, or to shake his head, or to simply say no. What you don’t expect is for him to take the two steps he needs to be in front of you and lower himself to one knee. Your heart was already aching for myriad reasons but this close, to see him this way again—

“It’s your choice, Earthling,” he says gently. There’s no anger or frustration in his tone, but there is sorrow, and it weights every word. “Whether or not I approve, it’s  _ your _ choice.”

“God, I—” and you choke up, locked in a ferocious struggle to keep from breaking into sobs. “Ultra Magnus—”

He waits, bless him, as you get yourself under control. You look up at him through your tears and you speak your truth. “I missed you. I still miss you. I don’t know how to stop.”

His composure cracks. His jaw tightens. Lines of tension engrave themselves into existence at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Earthling…”

“I…” you heave a shuddering sigh, “I still—”

He lifts his hand, hesitates before sliding his fingers along the curve of your cheek. “I know,” he tells you, the words made coarse by all the things he’s fighting not to show. “I know.”

“Do you still…?”

“Is that an answer you really want?”

_ Yes. _ But also,  _ no. No, because if you say yes—how do we… after all this time? After what I’ve done? _

Your indecision is clear. You’ve only ever once successfully hid what you were feeling from him. Every other time, without fail, your emotions transmit clearly through your expression. He surprises you yet again, because you expect him to withdraw, to turn away, to wall himself off. He doesn’t. He strokes a thumb over your cheek as he studies your face.

“We should continue,” he says then, getting to his feet. He holds out his hand. After a moment you take it.

“Yeah,” you belatedly agree, trying to pretend as though you can’t feel the splinters of your heart fracturing further.

Everything else goes unsaid.

**.x.**

A day later. Ratchet comes to find you in the barracks, altering his size and ducking through the doorway. You look at him with brows raised, lying on your back in your bunk with a salvaged book propped open across your raised knees.

“What’s up?”

He looks grim. You sit up, letting the book fall to the floor. “Ratchet?”

“There’s been a message,” he tells you, “from Airachnid.”

The skin on your arms raises into bumps. “And?”

“She has captured Bumblebee,” he says heavily, “and she wants to trade him for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: [Cyberpunk Optimus/Reader.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26433007/chapters/64398223)
> 
> Up next: Megatron or Dreadwing or maybe both.


	10. Unkind expectations

They play the video message back for you. It’s not pleasant. Bee is hanging suspended in the middle of a tangle web, his head drooping against his chest. There’s some nasty scoring on the lower right side of his chest, dried energon painting his chest around it. You can’t see his eyes but you’re positive that they’re offline black. You stare at the image for several seconds and feel something inside you harden with fear and guilt.

“You can save him, maybe,” says a voice from off screen. Airachnid. She steps into view, her extra limbs fanned out behind her, save the two Knock Out had torn off. Her arms are crossed across her chest as she tilts her head and smiles. _“If_ you send Knock Out and his human in exchange.”

That something somewhere in the vicinity of your heart becomes abruptly brittle.

“Actually,” Airachnid says, lifting her eyes skyward and letting them wander in a parody of contemplation, “why don’t we make it a party and add another? Send Ultra Magnus as well. I’m _quite_ fascinated by the dynamic between the three of them. Any more than that, though, and the scout dies. I _will_ know if you attempt to circumvent that rule.”

Your eyes remain fixed on Bee in the background, Bee who is innocent of everything aside from knowing you and the others, Bee who is the least deserving of this. He remains motionless.

“I’ll be sending the coordinates embedded with this message,” Airachnid says. “I’ll be gracious and allow for whatever organization you may require — you have two cycles before I start cutting.”

The screen flickers to black. You swallow against a swell of dread, manage to utter the only relevant question you can think of. “How long ago did she send it?”

“Not long,” Ratchet answers from behind you. He’d lifted you so that you could clearly see the bank of screens.

“Well—” you start, only to find that your voice is nearly soundless. There’s an unanticipated certainty looming before you and you are woefully, horribly unprepared. You try again. “Well, I guess we’d better give her what she wants.”

“Two of us against one of her.” Smokescreen’s voice somewhere behind you both. “Not the worst odds.”

“She’ll have traps,” Knock Out says. He sounds… weary. Resigned. Completely unlike himself. “She’ll have contingencies.”

Ultra Magnus makes a frustrated sound. “And Bumblebee is one of them.” 

“We cannot proceed without knowing more.” Optimus says from beside you and Ratchet.

“There’s no time—”

They begin to debate amongst themselves, listing possibilities, discarding them, every word falling heated and urgent. Ratchet ferries you to the mezzanine and deposits you there before returning to the group to offer his insight. You listen but don’t really hear, not that it matters, because in all of this the only thing you can do is… exist, the helpless little human in the company of Goliaths. Bumblebee, who accepted you as friend and family before any of the other Autobots, who loves easily and fully, who would do anything for any member of this family, is paying the price now for… for what? For sheer spite on Airachnid’s behalf? For the fact that she and Knock Out were lovers? You’re not to blame for this, right? You’re not. Because all you’ve done is live and make choices — some admittedly disastrous choices, yes — and you never, ever meant for anything like this to happen. Your mind knows you’re definitely not to blame. Your heart, on the other hand… well, it’s on the hunt for anything that can make it feel even worse than it already does.

You’ve been sitting on the couch with your elbows propped on your thighs and your head hanging. You lift it now, let your eyes drift across the space, let them settle on Knock Out. His countenance is grim. He’s feeling what you’re feeling, except stronger, because the burden of blame falls on him. Indirectly, yes, and wholly unintentionally, but now Bee is suffering for it. Knock Out is still relatively new to the team but he’s still a member, still a comrade, still a part of the family that war and strife have forged. This will be harder on him than anything else has been, because unlike with the Decepticons, he actually matters here.

This is how it all comes undone, you think, the unraveling that began when you and Ultra Magnus decided to call it quits two years ago. Or maybe before then? No way of knowing, really, but you are certain that you’ve been headed toward this kind of disaster for a while now. Over the years you became the plucky, resilient sidekick to the bots, the vulnerable yet witty friend, the self-deprecating smartass that fulfills the role of comic relief. Except that you’re none of those now. You’re just a confused and lonely mess.

You wait them out as they plan, checking your phone frequently to measure time as it passes, feeling your apprehension ramp up every time you do. You know you’ll have a role to play in the impending shitshow – Airachnid was gracious enough to offer you a lead and you can’t possibly refuse. So, when Optimus approaches with mingled regret and frustration incised into the angles of his face, you take a deep breath, stand, and meet his gaze head on. 

“I’m ready,” is all you say. 

**.x.**

It’s a simple plan. Airachnid will get her lovers three (or lovers and ex) to toy with, all the while remaining (hopefully) unaware that a fortuitously available Wheeljack will be closing in on the designated location in his ship, which has recently been outfitted with the molecular masking technology. Upon being notified of the situation, Wheeljack had offered to fly you all to the spot, but Optimus and the others had decided to fulfill Airachnid’s demands for fear of what she might do to Bumblebee otherwise. 

So now here you are, standing on the ground where Knock Out has placed you as behind you the ground bridge closes. Ultra Magnus is on your right, the both of them in their natural, colossal states. The web that holds Bumblebee is spread throughout the trees surrounding you and he is strung up in the middle, a centerpiece wounded and still. And Airachnid…

“So punctual,” she remarks from her perch on a tree branch just above Bumblebee. “And here I was thinking you’d want some time to come up with a plan.”

The way she says it lets you know that she’s aware there _is_ a plan, and that just because she’s not familiar with all the details doesn’t mean she isn’t prepared. Your heart sinks further than it already has, which is impressive considering you’d assumed it already fallen as far as it could go. 

“Whatever it is that you want,” Ultra Magnus says in a voice that fairly resonates with restrained fury, “you won’t be getting it if you harm Bumblebee any further.”

“Oh, he’s fine,” she assures, reaching down to grab Bee’s chin. She raises his head until his face is visible, and though he remains unresponsive his eyes flicker faintly. She adds, “More or less. He did put up quite a fight. I think he may have tired himself out.”

“As for what I want,” she continues as her eyes zero in on you, “it’s really very simple. The human for the scout.”

Silence. Knock Out takes a step forward. Ultra Magnus’ fists clench at his sides. You all knew it was coming to this. You’d talked yourself up, tried to bolster your courage, but that’s all moot now as you stand face to face with this cold, calculating, remorseless creature. _There’s a plan,_ you think desperately as her purple eyes rake you over from top to bottom, eyeing you like you're a problem that needs to be solved. _There’s a plan. Wheeljack is coming. But what’s that bit about best laid plans? And “best laid” is not exactly what this plan is…_

Airachnid waits you all out with an air of blithe indifference, still cupping Bee’s head between her hands, her thumbs swirling idle circles across the plating that frames his face. 

It’s finally Knock Out who speaks, his tone something between angry adjuration and something like regret. “Airachnid–”

She cuts him off immediately. “It’s a simple exchange, Knock Out, and you’ll be getting the better half of it.”

 _Ouch._

“If you insist on hesitating, I’ll be forced to make a trophy out of this one.” One of her long, segmented limbs moves, sliding over her shoulder and under Bee’s chin until the knife edge rests against his throat equivalent. “I have many Autobot heads already, but I certainly wouldn’t mind another.”

You’re almost startled to find yourself moving, your steps unsteady but far more determined than you thought they would be. What it comes down to is that you love Bee. He’s a friend, a found brother, and you know that in a heartbeat he would trade places with you if the roles were reversed. You may lack the lifespan of eons and an external covering that can withstand a hail of bullets, but you _can_ do this. 

That’s what you repeat to yourself even as behind you Knock Out says your name, as Ultra Magnus utters a deep rumble of alarm and fear on your behalf. If you look over your shoulder now at either of them you will falter, and you know that they will too. It is imperative that you keep your eyes forward, centered on Bee’s face and his dark eyes and the blade-like appendage that hovers at this throat. She begins to move as you approach, gracefully traversing the threads of her web until she’s able to pluck you up with ease. Despite your resolve to remain stoically silent, your gasp is audible as her fingers wrap around you.

She lashes out with one of her appendages suddenly, and you watch in surprise as she slices through several of the main threads holding Bumblebee. He topples to the ground to lie in a heap, and your relief is immediately replaced by a flood of alarm as she spins around and presses you against a different section of webbing. That’s all it takes, a simple touch, and you are firmly and inescapably imprisoned. You struggle, of course, as her fingers slide away from you, are both unsurprised and beyond scared to learn that it’s as though you’ve been welded to the webbing, so firm is its hold. You’re going precisely nowhere.

Airachnid smiles at you. With one long, slender, sharp finger she pushes a wayward strand of hair behind your ear. “You did well,” she praises you. “I thought I’d have to make the yellow one bleed a bit before you came to me.”

A burst of blue energy tears through a space in the web to your right. Your eyes find Knock Out over her shoulder, standing with his blaster arm raised. Ultra Magnus is kneeling next to Bumblebee, checking his companion’s vitals. 

“Knock Out,” she chides, and there’s a ribbon of silky steel in her voice, “are you _trying_ to get dear Earthling killed? Her delicate frame can only withstand so much, and if you keep doing things like that I can’t promise I won’t get too rough.”

Your heart lurches with her words before settling into an uneven pace. She’s still smiling, gaze still fixed on you. Her fangs are openly visible. _This is it,_ you think, and as much as you want to close your eyes against her ruthlessly eager expression, you find you can’t. You are riveted, suspended between shallow, frantic breaths, stricken by a godawful and detrimental curiosity of what she means to do to you.

“Stand down, Ultra Magnus!” she suddenly exclaims, half-turning her head. Your eyes fix on him to find both his arms have converted to dual blasters and are aimed at Airachnid. “You know how this goes, don’t you? You stand there and observe while I have my _fun.”_

One of her spider limbs slashes down and you utter a cry as it rends fabric and flesh, slicing a line from shoulder to elbow on your left arm. It’s a struggle to move your head, glued as it is, but you manage just enough to be able to see blood welling up through the tear in your shirt sleeve. _Flesh wound,_ you tell yourself, _not fatal. It only hurts. I’m okay._

_For now._

You feel the dagger-tip of one of her extra limbs pressing under your chin, a pinprick that belies the raw power she has at your disposal, a power with which she could easily drive that point through your jaw and into your brain. She’s not looking at you – her head is half-turned to look with disdainful amusement upon the two Autobots that had surged forward the moment you cried out. 

“The only way little Earthling gets out of this alive is if you do as I say,” she instructs them, “and even then there are no assurances. Am I understood?”

Knock Out gives a jerky nod. Ultra Magnus is still. 

“Obedience is a good look on you boys. I’d be a fool not to take advantage of it, wouldn’t I?” she returns her attention to you, cocks her head to one side to examine your countenance thoroughly. “I am entirely incapable of understanding what either of them saw – see? – in you. Humans are, in a word, unremarkable. Perhaps it’s your optics? I will admit, they are a lovely color.” 

Another of her remaining spider limbs drifts closer to your face, scratching down your cheek. Low in your throat a scream is starting to gather and you feel its pressure, edged and desperate. Your fear must reside in the air, a tangible thing, because Airachnid’s smile widens. She adjusts her position, moving slightly to one side while still clinging to her webbing to allow Knock Out and Ultra Magnus a better view of you. 

“I suspect there is a great deal of unresolved negative emotion connecting the three of you,” she correctly intuits, “and we can’t have that. So I’m offering a resolution, of sorts – the two of you will battle each other while Earthling watches… and to the victor go the spoils.”

“Your fucking circuits are faulty,” Knock Out growls.

“You’ll do it, Knock Out, or I’ll take her apart piece by piece.” Another blur of movement, another thin limb slicing down the length of your thigh. You manage to keep your scream bottled up this time but your breath jerks out of you in a high-pitched, ragged exhale anyway.

Neither of them have moved. 

“Do I need to get a little more forceful?” she queries, raising a third leg. “This will all be for the best. Express your emotions, boys. Show each other how you really feel, or Earthling will pay the price.”

She emphasizes her statement by driving the dagger-tip of that third leg through your right palm. It happens so swiftly you’re hardly aware until the pain hits, and then your shriek rises on the air, haggard and thin. She keeps your hand pinioned this way for an agonizing span of seconds before slowly and maliciously sliding the metal tip free. You can feel the blood that wells up, gathering to flow down your index and middle fingers in rivulets. 

You don’t know who swings first; your attention is on your bloodied hand but your eyes jerk forward at the sound of metal colliding with metal to find the two of them locked in a grapple. Your heart, brittle hardened thing it has become throughout all this, fractures to see it, to see Bumblebee lying in a motionless heap behind them. Tears are streaming down your face and it’s a bit of work to guess their cause: Pain? Fear? Turmoil born of the love you walked away from or the affection and attraction you’ve embraced in order to try and fix yourself? 

You’ve watched them do this once before, stuck up high in the fragile branches of a tree. You watched them battle with the intent of killing and it had crystallized your blood then but it’s worse now. It’s a personal affair for both, where before that had only been true for one side. It hurts you to watch as Knock Out rams his knee into Ultra Magnus’ midsection, as he takes advantage of his superior’s stagger to deliver several quicksilver blows to the head. Ultra Magnus reels, nearly topples, but he finds his balance and swings around, a startingly smooth and swift transition that he follows through with a closed fist driven directly into Knock Out’s face. 

“Exhilarating, isn’t it?” Airachnid whispers, turning around and positioning her head so that it is right next to yours. Her words blow hot against your ear. “Such fine Cybertronian specimens these are, and to see them pitted against each other… there is power in this, Earthling. This is what they are willing to do for _you._ A pity such focus and ferocity is wasted on a human.”

“If I were the type to make a wager,” she continues, “it would be a very tough call. They both seem far more invested in your welfare than is healthy. Ultra Magnus is a more proficient fighter, but Knock Out is quite cunning…”

You can do nothing but watch as they continue to batter each other, a brutal back and forth that saws at your already frayed emotions. You wonder how you’ll all be forced to endure this. You wonder if the two of them are really intent on killing each other or if this is all for show. Knock Out slips free of Ultra Magnus’ hold and whips around to deliver a devastating kick to Ultra Magnus, following through with a punch. Energon flies through the air, paints them both.

If this is all for show, they are incredible actors.

It wages on. You feel Airachnid’s fingertips stroking through your hair, an idle yet calculated gesture. Pain tinges every breath you take, is centered in your palm, raw and jabbing. You almost forget about it in the moments that follow, though, because Ultra Magnus backs away, wipes the energon from his face with the back of one hand, and brings forth his wrist blade with the other. There’s nothing you recognize in his face. It is completely and terrifyingly blank, like he’s emptied of everything except his grim purpose.

“Oh,” Airachnid breathes in your ear. _“Now_ this is getting interesting.”

Knock Out’s blade also makes an appearance. They are both utterly still until they aren’t, exploding into movement as they lunge at each other. You wince as they collide, as their blades swipe. A low, pained grunt is followed immediately by a hiss and a curse and you watch as they stumble away from each other and then rush forward again. Each new stripe of energon that appears shreds parts of you. You’re not certain how much will be left.

Knock Out narrowly dodges a blow, knifes in behind Ultra Magnus and with a well aimed kick sends the other to one knee. Ultra Magnus twists around but is too late, and Knock Out’s blade sinks into the back of his shoulder. Your cry is drowned out by his roar, by Airachnid’s malevolently appreciative gloating. You catch your breath in the next instant as Ultra Magnus wrenches himself free and charges Knock Out, dropping his shoulder for maximum impact. Knock Out is sent sprawling and Ultra Magnus approaches with slow, purposeful steps. 

There’s a sudden commotion off to one side. You’re unable to turn your head but you strain your eyes to see, catch a glimpse of something large, green, and white flying upward and then bobbing in the peripheral of your vision, suspended in what can only be Airachnid’s webbing. 

“Wheeljack!” she exclaims, pushing herself away from you and navigating the threads of her creation to approach her latest catch. “I was hoping one of you would blunder into all this. It gives me an excuse to do what I’d planned on doing all along. Apologize and then say your farewell to Earthling. She’s not long for this world.”

Wheeljack, hanging upside down and spinning slowly, replies in a voice that sounds entirely too casual considering his current circumstances. “I’m not in the habit of apologizing to ‘Cons,” he says as he spins around. On his next revolution, he looks at you and winks.

Hope flares within you while at the same time Airachnid gives a furious shout. She’s coming for you, fast and furious and you can do nothing, immobilized as you are, but watch from the corner of your eye. She’s almost to you when a blaster shot takes her in the side, knocks her sideways in the web. She clings, catches her balance with her extra limbs, is thrown loose completely by another shot of brilliant blue. She falls. You suck in a deep, shuddering breath of relief and confusion and pain. 

Below and behind you are the sounds of combat. Ultra Magnus and Knock Out are no longer visible to you. Minutes pass as chaos rages out of your view. Wheeljack is struggling against the ropey strands that hold him. Your limited line of sight only lets you make out movement, and when he suddenly drops from sight you know he’s freed himself. Once again you can do nothing but wait and bleed and hope, and when Knock Out’s battered visage suddenly appears you make a sound that’s soft and unintelligible. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice cracked. 

He makes quick work of the gluey threads holding you, plucking you from them, pulling them away from you as carefully as he can. One of his hands cradles you, and a finger of the other hovers above your arm and traces the wounds Airachnid has made. When he gets to the puncture in your palm he shakes his head, mouth twisting. You read his apology, gritty and bleak and sincere, in the pinched light of his eyes. 

_I’ll be okay,_ is what you should say, and you try to. You do. But you can’t, because it’s not the truth and maybe he knows that, because the look he gives you then is stricken. An unsteady finger drifts over the line of your shoulder and then your neck, curling about your nape and pressing gently in an effort to offer you comfort. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again to speak but then his eyes focus on something over your shoulder.

“Take her back,” he says abruptly, thrusting out the hand holding you. Your head swings around to see Ultra Magnus, energon dripping from a gash above his left eye, more energon smeared at the corner of his mouth. He stares hard at Knock Out as seconds tick past, and then his eyes drop to you. Immediately his expression contorts into something you can’t quite decipher, and he gives a single nod. 

Knock Out’s fingers loosen, setting you down carefully in the palm of Ultra Magnus. “Take care of her,” he directs, static punctuating every syllable.

“What will you do?” Ultra Magnus asks. His voice is low, threaded with a sort of tension you’ve never heard from him before.

Knock Out smiles. It’s not a nice smile, an amalgam of regret and rage and bitterness. “Clean up my mess,” is his answer. His farewell to you is a deeply rueful glance and a fleeting caress of his fingertip across your cheek. He turns to go.

You watch him depart, walking with a swift albeit slightly hitched stride toward the group of Autobots that had staged the rescue: Optimus, Smokescreen, Arcee, and Wheeljack. Of Airachnid there is no sign. Knock Out had said she would have contingencies, so she was undoubtedly able to get away. That they are going to hunt her to the end is without question now. You think maybe you should call after him, entreat him to stay safe. Would it change anything if you did? And the honest, shameful truth is that you can’t bring yourself to do it, not as you are now, held by Ultra Magnus. 

You’re cradling your injured hand in your other one, your thoughts reeling. You’re feeling _too much,_ an affliction you’ve become intimately acquainted with lately. You are filled with dread for Knock Out, and sympathy too, because what he must do now will be difficult, made even more so by what has just transpired. Everything is just… _fucked._ For everyone. You’re a shivering, crying, snotty, bloody mess, and you lift your good hand to rub at your face and wince as the movement pulls at your bevy of new wounds. The ones on your arms and thigh are only superficial, but your palm… you stupidly try to flex those fingers and wince, biting back an agonized gasp.

“Earthling,” Ultra Magnus says. 

You find that you can’t look at him, even when he lifts you to eye level. You keep your eyes on your bloodied palm and ask, “Where’s Bee?”

“Bulkhead and Ratchet took him through the ground bridge the moment they arrived.”

That’s one bit of good news, then. Ultra Magnus is regarding you carefully but you avoid his gaze. A few seconds later you llisten as he speaks to Ratchet via comms, as he asks for a ground bridge, as he specifies in a rough voice that medical attention for the both of you will be necessary. 

Movement catches your attention from the corner of your eye and you turn your head to watch as the other Autobots transform one after the other and take off at considerable speed. The hunt is on. You crane your head around, look up to see Ultra Magnus’ eyes fixed on his leaving companions.

You have to clear your throat before you can speak and when you do, the words are hushed and thready. “Go with them. I can make it through the bridge on my own.”

He looks down at you, at your bloodied right hand, brow plates furrowed. His response is firm and absolute. “No.” 

The ground bridge opens and immediately he strides into it. You stare ahead without seeing, apprehensive for the others, apprehensive for yourself. Bad things come in threes, right? You numbly count the events in your life that can count as catastrophic in varying categories – losing Ultra Magnus, losing your home, and… this? 

Ratchet is waiting on the other side, and his eyes skim rapidly over you both.

“Bee?” you ask.

“Stable. Resting.” As the bridge closes Ratchet paces a tight circle around Ultra Magnus, making a displeased noise as he observes the blade wound on the commander’s shoulder.

“The two of you were supposed to refrain from inflicting serious injury,” he snaps.

“We also had to make it believable,” Ultra Magnus retorts with an uncharacteristically caustic edge. 

The set of Ratchet’s face softens as he finishes his circuit, drawing closer to the hand that holds you. That you appear ragged is clear; the left leg of your jeans and arm of your shirt are sliced through, stained with blood. You’re still holding your punctured hand with the other in a careful grip and Ratchet extends one finger toward it, lets it hover there. 

“Earthling,” he says heavily, and his visage blurs. You duck your head in a futile attempt to hide the tears.

“Come quickly,” Ratchet orders, and Ultra Magnus obeys. In the lab you see Bee laid out on one of the two examination slabs, his eyes still dark, his body hooked up to myriad medical equipment. You feel a pang at seeing him so vulnerable, yet another note in your discordant emotional symphony. Ultra Magnus sets you down in the area Ratchet had designated years past for human treatment. Ratchet gestures for him to take a seat on the other metal slab meant for Autobot patients. He shakes his head.

“Tend to her first.”

“I intend to,” Ratchet says curtly. His tone takes both you and Ultra Magnus aback, and the latter frowns as he seats himself on the slab. As Ratchet approaches you with the medical kit he had put together at June’s direction, you can’t help but lean away, afraid that his ire will be taken out on you. Seeing your reaction, Ratchet pauses with a sigh. He positions himself before you, blocking you from Ultra Magnus’ sight. 

His protectiveness brings a fresh swell of angst and you are now perilously close to unraveling. He’s angry, yes, but at Ultra Magnus, at Knock Out, at everything and anything that put you on _this_ path that led you here. Some of it is self-directed, undoubtedly, and the fact that he cares this much about you is just more fuel to the emotional fire. 

“Earthling,” he says in a low voice, “do you wish to go to the hospital?”

You stare up at him in confusion. His expression is as sober as you have ever seen it. Through your tears and pain and bewilderment you piece together what he is saying – he’s giving you an opportunity to find safety and security _away_ from the Autobots. It was all unintentional, unintended, yes, but knowing them, _loving_ them, has led to all of this. 

“I’ll take you if you want to go,” he continues. There’s a gentle urgency in his tone; he is clearly afraid for you, of what dangers await if things continue the way they have. Airachnid will hopefully soon become non-existent, but there will _always_ be something else. He is imploring you now to follow wisdom’s insistence over the longing of your pummeled, bleeding heart. 

Your life over the past few years blends together in a jumbled rush as you stare at him, as he gazes at you. You’ve known fear and sorrow and loss and yeah, some choices were disastrous… but _you_ made them. You weren’t coerced, you weren’t forced. You had hold of the wheel and steered your way down a road of blended amazement and hazards and fascination. You had a good run, and it can end here and now before you lose anything more. Ratchet will give you an exit and you know that if you take him up on his offer, he will do everything in his power to ensure you can go back to leading a normal life devoid of anything extraordinary. 

_What happens to my heart if I leave now?_ you want to ask, and maybe you do, because he gives his head a gentle shake. _It won’t mend if I go. I don’t even know if it will heal if I stay. I don’t think I can live this way anymore. What do I do, Ratchet?_

“It’s up to you,” he says quietly.

The silence in the seconds that follow is absolute. Ultra Magnus has assuredly heard Ratchet’s words, has undeniably comprehended their underlying meaning. Your future diverges before you, two paths so very different in what they contain, and you are cruelly being torn between them both.

“... I’ll stay,” is your eventual response, so soft as to be lost to the expectant stillness surrounding you.

Ratchet sighs, lowers his head, shakes it. “Earthling…”

But you’ve given the only answer you had to give.

**.x.**

It’s later. Ratchet has fixed you up, drawing upon his vast stores of medical knowledge as it pertains to humans in order to treat your punctured hand. It now rests in your lap, bandaged and aching. You’d taken a fistful of painkillers to take the edge off, but even dulled that edge is potent. Your other injuries were similarly addressed and you sit now on your bunk in the barracks in clothing that’s whole and free of bloodstains. 

You’re not alone. Ultra Magnus sought you out after Ratchet had tended to his wounds, knocking on the door frame, ducking down to enter at your wordless nod. You’d asked about Bee and if there had been any report from the others, and he’d told you that Bee would be fine in a couple of days and that the others had radioed back to say they were still in pursuit. Nobody else was hurt. Yet. 

So now here you both are. You wonder if Ultra Magnus had come here just to relay that news but he doesn’t leave. Instead he walks toward you, stops and drops to one knee in front of your bunk. He’s so large even at this size that he fills the entirety of your vision. His proximity makes you anxious for so many reasons, and all of them you are entirely incapable of handling with even a modicum of grace right now.

“Why are you here?” you ask him and you sound just as you are: weak and tired and sad and scared.

“Because I am concerned about you,” is his reply. “Because I don’t want you to be alone.”

He is unwavering, resolved, as he always was, as he always will be. You look at him and wonder how it all went so wrong, how this chasm came to be between the two of you. You shouldn’t have let each other go, back then. You should have clung and held onto the thing that brought you so many kinds of happiness.

His patient, steady gaze strips you bare. All that’s left is honesty, so you part your cracked lips and give it to him, brittle candor that hurts you both. “I fucked Knock Out.”

“I know.”

Your breath trembles as it leaves you. “Then why are you here?”

“I still care, Earthling.” 

You know that. You know he does. You know that some emotions can’t be controlled, confined, predicted. You know that what you did should be of no interest to him because two years ago you both made the choice to go your separate ways. But this isn’t what you’d expected, what you’d anticipated, what you’d feared. There’s no condemnation in his expression as he watches you, no disgust, just… compassion. And, when he reaches for you, takes your uninjured hand, turns it over gently so that your palm rests against his, you catch a glimpse of that rare, naked adoration that you’d once cherished so much. 

“I still care,” he repeats, stroking his fingers over the back of your hand. “I always will. Your hold on my spark has never once faded.”

Your shoulders shudder with the effort to subdue the torrent of feeling you are about to express, but as always you lose the battle. You lower your head, blink fat tears from your eyes that race down your face and drop heavily from your chin. 

“I _needed_ you,” you confess between your quiet sobs. “I missed you, and I wish–”

But there are just _so many_ ways to finish that statement, and you lack the mental cohesion to utter them all. Ultra Magnus’s other hand lifts, fingers finding your face, the cool metal pad of his thumb swiping the moisture from your cheeks. His tenderness, of course, increases your emotional output to the point where you’re crying so hard that even attempting to speak would result in incoherency. He waits you out as he always did back then, a solid and reliable presence offering comfort in only the way he can.

Gradually your weeping lessens, though you are now beset with hiccuping sighs as an aftermath from the force of your bawling. You lift your head to look at him, searching every bit of his face for an answer as to what exactly is transpiring between the two of you here and now.

His hand falls away from your face, covers the one lying in his other palm. He says calmly, “Tell me that you still love me.”

You blink, head jerking back a little. His eyes on yours are fixed and inescapable. When you say nothing after a few moments, he queries in that same unshakeable, even tone, “Or perhaps you don’t?”

“I do,” you blurt out in a rush. 

A small smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t relent. “I want to hear you say it.”

So do you. You expel those three words on a sigh that’s frayed and thin due to the culmination of, well, everything. You repeat them, and then you ask about the horrible thing you must know. “Aren’t you… how are you still… after what I did with – with Knock Out…”

He’s silent for a while, which worries you. Finally he says. “It was your right to so choose. I understood that, even if I did not approve. And – you are still as you have always been, Earthling. You still matter to me, are a source of contentment to me, and I am unable to let that go.” He lowers his eyes briefly, lifts them again as he adds softly, “I am _unwilling_ to let it go.”

This shouldn’t be happening, except that it is. It is, and you’re reeling under the enormity of it. You’re bewildered too, because it all came at you so swiftly and you’re not completely certain what the end result of all this – the weeping, the words, the feelings – is going to be. Your expressive face does you a favor, transmitting your confusion clearly. Ultra Magnus takes it upon himself to provide you with a definitive answer, leaning forward and cupping your chin and pressing his mouth to yours. It’s the gentlest kiss he’s ever given you, because he knows how fragile you are, because he wants to be the one to piece together the parts of you that are already broken. When he finally pulls away he studies you intently, ghosting one finger along the swell of your bottom lip. 

You should say something, probably. You don’t know how, though, because the sum of your being is tied up in how suddenly _right_ you feel. The perpetual void in your chest is diminishing in size. Not all is fixed, no – you’ve fucked up too much for that to be possible – but this part of your life, this mistake you made, it’s on the way to being rectified. But still–

“I care for him,” you whisper, an admission you hadn’t planned on making.

He reacts to that a little – you watch his jaw tighten and you expect him to recoil, to let you go. Instead he nods, says, “I know.”

“Is that – can you be okay with that?”

“I am uncertain,” he replies with grave honesty, “but it is something I will attempt to learn.”

You stare at him in disbelief. If he were anyone else, if he were human, this wouldn’t be happening. He would leave and he would forget. He’s not human, though, and you realize you’ve fallen into the old habit of trying to understand him from your own limited mortal perspective. You love him because he’s not human, and his true, unique, very different self is not averse to trying to sort things out even though your affections are tangled. 

There’s an immeasurable amount of things you need and want to say, but you are tired and sore and incredibly overwhelmed. You feel the sudden weight of it all pressing at you, and perhap sensing this Ultra Magnus gives your fingers a gentle squeeze before letting your hand go and getting to his feet. 

“Get some rest,” he instructs you softly. “We can speak later.”

“I don’t want you to go,” you say, vulnerability and uncertainty both vying for control of your voice. “Could you – can you please stay?”

“Yes,” is his immediate, emphatic answer. “I can stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one or two chapters left. Thanks much for sticking around this far.


	11. A puzzle you can finish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Hey, what became of my head?  
>  The beats of my heart, the jokes that I said  
> I guess all these false starts  
> of a puzzle you can't finish 'cause you're missing the best parts._
> 
> _Don't you feel I'm bringing you home?  
>  Out of this pit where I left you alone in  
> This horrible mess that I made  
> But I guess that's what you get when you're not paying attention_
> 
> _So baby, welcome back to the man you've been missing_  
>  _Baby, welcome back to confusing, perplexing-_
> 
> _[Old Flames - Coheed and Cambria](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SX6Dz0JRifU)_

Airachnid is dead. She went out with a bang and not a whimper, nearly taking Knock Out with her, injuring Wheeljack seriously. When they return through the ground bridge you are sitting on the floor of the bunk room with Ultra Magnus by your side, your head on his shoulder as you doze. He stirs as he hears the report via his internal comms, and when you lift your head to look up at him his expression is dark.

“They’re back?”

He nods. “Airachnid is dead.”

Your swell of relief is quickly swamped by concern. “And the others?”

“Wheeljack sustained considerable injury.” A short pause, and then: “So did Knock Out.”

You feel that pang again, a stiletto thrust in your heart. Your expression speaks for you. “They’re both being treated by Ratchet now,” he says with more gentle consideration than you probably deserve. “Knock Out is not conscious.”

“Will they be all right?”

His answer is preceded by a calming gesture as he settles the palm of his hand on your back. You hadn’t realized how stiffly you were holding yourself, and his touch allows you to relax a little. “Yes,” he tells you. “They will recover. Ratchet will ensure it.”

“I know,” you murmur, settling back against him. “I know he will.”

You don’t drift back to sleep, because you know you won’t be able to, and you know he has to go soon. He gives you a few minutes of this, because he knows you need it—bliss diluted by the grim facets of reality is still bliss—before he stirs, turning his head to cast you a regretful glance. You nod your understanding, pull away from him and get to your feet as he does the same. The silence between you isn’t strained, but it isn’t quite comfortable. You haven’t quite found your way back there yet, and likely won’t for some time. Instead of a goodbye, he steps close, cups the back of your head, and bends down until the coolness of his forehead rests against yours. He draws away, heads toward the door. You don’t watch him go.

Alone with your thoughts and feelings, you crawl onto your bunk and curl up on your side. You’ve shunted off dealing with it all for too long, and you can’t ignore it any longer. This is how you spend the next hours, staring at the wall, trying to figure out the lines between what’s right and what’s wrong, wondering if that delineation even exists anymore.

**.x.**

Four in the morning and you’re standing at the threshold of the base’s lab/medical bay. Bee is still there, laid out on the table, and next to him Wheeljack. Ratchet, ever the vigilant doctor, is seated in the far corner, head drooping, eyes black. He’s had an incredibly busy day—Bee, you, Ultra Magnus, Wheeljack and Knock Out. It’s no wonder he’s worn out. You back away, leaving him to his sleep, and go in search of Knock Out.

The base is vast, and it takes you nearly ten minutes to find him. With the small lab filled to capacity, they’d turned one of the extra storage vaults into overflow. Knock Out is on his back in a berth, battered and patched up but not hooked up to any equipment that indicates a critical state. You think that maybe he’s in recharge, take two quiet steps backward, are surprised when his head turns in your direction. His red eyes blink you into focus, and his scarred face creases into a tired smile.

“Hey,” he greets.

Your approach is a hesitant one. You don’t quite know what to say or what to do, and also you’re down here and he’s up there. You have to say _something,_ though, so—”You okay?”

He reaches up, grips the edge of the berth, pulls himself upright. His attempt to mute his groan of pain isn’t entirely successful. He turns until both feet are flat on the floor, leans forward, resting his arms on his thighs as he looks down at you. Only half of the vault’s lighting is on but that’s enough to reveal that Airachnid worked him over thoroughly before she was defeated. Blaster marks are spattered across his torso, and a bevy of ragged slashes decorate his right arm and leg. She didn’t spare his face, having raked her talons diagonally across it, bisecting his mouth and coming perilously to gouging out his left eye.

As you study him, he studies you in return, eyes retracing the wounds Airachnid had inflicted, lips tightening as he does so. Eventually he remembers you’d asked a question and gives you a less than reassuring answer. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Me either.”

“I fucked up,” he says with a shake of his head.

“What she did—”

“You’re going to argue it wasn’t my fault, aren’t you? I need you not to, Earthling.”

You stare at him in surprise. His tone and countenance are unnervingly unfamiliar. This isn’t _him,_ and you hate that. You hate that the last week has changed everything so much that you don’t recognize yourself, and now you don’t recognize him. It isn’t okay. It isn’t right.

He opens his mouth to say something else, probably something somber, something depressing, something wrong. You’re not going to let him. “Shut the fuck up.” you interrupt calmly.

His brow plating rockets upward.

“My getting hurt isn’t your fault. I said, _shut the fuck up,”_ you enunciate when he opens his mouth again, “and Just. Fucking. Listen.” You pause, stare at him, and only continue when he gives you a short nod. “You bots are always so quick to forget that I’m capable of making my own decisions. Those decisions are often stupid, and lead to shit like this happening. I chose to come back to Jasper. I chose to be with you. My choices. And the consequences of those choices are on me.”

“Well, some of them are on the rest of you, I guess,” you add, because that’s the truth and he doesn’t need you to pretend otherwise. “But the bulk of it, that’s on me. Okay?”

“Airachnid was after _me—”_

“—And I was collateral, yeah. That’s a fact. But I could have left.”

“And gone where? Your home is—” he bites off the rest, because there’s no need to say it.

“Yeah.” You agree heavily. “My home is gone. I’m hurt. I could have died. That all happened. I’m telling you that I’m still here and I’ll be okay, and that I don’t blame you.”

“Maybe you should.”

You run your hand over your face, frustrated with his unwillingness—or perhaps his inability—to accept what you’re saying. “If you could just fucking…”

“Yes?” he asks, and there’s just the faintest hint of that familiar teasing note in his voice. Your hand slides away from your face as you gaze up at him.

“Stop doing whatever _this_ is and be okay. Be _you_ again. We’re both still alive. We’re both right here.”

“We are,” he agrees, and slowly gets to his feet. You’re about to ask him if she should be upright when he diminishes in a blurred rush until he’s roughly your size. That displacing his mass has taxed him is evident; he takes a step toward you and totters a little.

You move forward, grabbing both his arms to steady him. “Maybe you shouldn’t be–”

“Shut up.” he says, throwing your own interruption back at you with a ghost of his regular grin. You feel your lips twitch in response.

He regards you in silence for a few minutes, and you wait patiently for him to reach whatever conclusion awaits. “You know it would be smarter to just move on from… all this?” he eventually asks. 

You tilt your head, bob it in a crooked nod. “Yep.”

“But you’re not going to?”

You roll your shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe, for a while. But I’ll come back.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Humor me.”

“Because,” you say, striving for playful affectlessness and falling a little short of the mark, “there are things here I don’t want to leave behind.”

“Me?”

Your answer is a smile. 

“And Ultra Magnus.”

Your smile fades. You have to tell him. That’s why you’d come. Well, part of why you’d come. Like always, there’s just _too much_ floating around in your heart and your brain. “Yes,” you confirm quietly.

That you are conflicted is obvious and you duck your head to avoid those crimson eyes that are suddenly far more discerning than they typically are. He tips your head back up with the backs of his knuckles, meets your distressed gaze with a smile that’s a sad echo of what it usually is. 

“I knew it was only a matter of time,” he says. “The two of you aren’t meant to be apart.”

There’s tension in your jaw, the kind that preludes tears. God, you are _so_ fucking sick of crying. You curl your hands into fists in an attempt to handle this without dissolving into a blubbery mess. 

“For all the shit I give him, Ultra Magnus is…” and here he pauses, eyes sliding downward as he casts about for the right words, “... admirable. And the only one, I think, deserving of you.”

Warring emotions are tying up your vocal chords, but you manage to squeeze some words out. “So are you.”

He surprises you by grabbing by the upper arms and pulling you against him. His uninjured arm encircles you and when you try to push away just enough to look up at him, he presses you close. With your cheek against the coolness of his frame you venture to speak further.

“I’m sorry for making a mess of it all,” you say in a small voice.

“What’s the mess?” he asks. You can feel the vibration of his voice. “I care for you. I know you care for me. If nothing else,” he pauses, hand sliding a little lower on your back until they just barely graze the swell of your ass, “we’re great in bed.”

You do manage to free yourself just enough to catch a glimpse of his face. His mouth has regained its rakish, irrepressible curve and you find yourself smiling back at him in relief. Your smile fades again, however, as you recall the third party in this… _situation._

“No,” he chides. “Don’t look like that. Don’t get sad.”

“It’s just that…” you trail off, shake your head. “I don’t even know how to… this is so fucking complicated.”

“Hmm, doesn’t have to be. I’m more than willing to share.”

Palms flat on his chest, you push back to give him a slack-jawed stare. “Are you… are you _serious?”_

“Entirely.” He winks, but his next words are solemn. “I get to see the side of you he doesn’t, the part of you that’s only for me. That’s all I need.”

He lowers his head, bit by bit, until his mouth hovers over yours. His kiss is slow and gentle, a change in pace from what you’ve come to know from. Before this your dual interactions were based on lust and the frenetic curiosity that accompanied it. There’s deeper emotion involved now, and it has you curling your fingers around his arms in mingled wonder and anticipation. 

When he pulls away from you, his question brushes hot against your mouth. “But will he be okay with it?”

His inquiry is a trigger, reigniting all your concerns and your doubts. The warmth infusing you from what has just transpired begins to cool. Intuiting this, he lets you go.

“I don't know,” you say, an answer to what he’d asked, an answer to what you’re feeling, an answer to what awaits.

“You need time.”

“Yeah…” You shake your head, take a step back. How do you do this? How do you navigate loving one and longing for another? Can your heart survive the pull of both? And Ultra Magnus – he said he would try to learn to accept that your feelings are divided, but what if he can’t? And even if he can, how is it fair to him? You are suddenly and overwhelmingly swamped within turmoil, feel its weight draping over you like an oppressive blanket.

“I’m sorry,” you offer, and you are, for ruining the moment, for not being certain of what you want, for having to leave it this way until you can sort yourself out. 

He makes a slight gesture with his hand, negating your apology. “Don’t be. Earthling… I’ll be here for you. Always. No matter what you decide. Even,” he adds with a shrug, “if it’s just to watch horror movies together.”

He means it, and your relief is nearly a tangible thing. You want to seek the comfort of his embrace again but you know to do so is only delaying the inevitable. You need to figure out… well, _everything._

“Get some rest,” you tell him as you back toward the door. “Get better.”

“I plan to,” he says with his characteristic easy assurance. “You should sleep, too.”

You nod, even though you know you won’t, because there’s _too much._ You turn and leave the vault, feeling both better and worse than you had upon entering. You spend some time wandering through its corridors aimlessly, comparing the pros and cons, trying to sort through all the ratty strings attached to your heart in an effort to decide which ones you can and cannot live without. It’s a puzzle without a solution, maddening because it _should_ be so simple but it’s anything but. The _hows_ and the _whys_ of your longings and desires weary you out eventually, and you return to your bunk. 

You don’t dream. 

**.x.**

Three weeks pass. You’re allowed to return home to begin breaking ground on the new construction. You’d hired (rehired) the same architect that had designed your first home and have decided to go with the same floor plan with only a few minor changes. It’s fall now, and with winter so close there’s not much that can be done other than ensure the wreckage is entirely gone and that the basement foundation, which hadn’t sustained as much damage as the main floor, is up to the task of supporting what is to come. 

June and the boys return and Jack heads off for college, which means June has extra room in her home. Being as you’ll be living in Jasper probably for the next year, June extends you an invitation to become her temporary roommate. Given the state of things between you and two certain Autobots – which is to say that things are suspended – you leap at the chance. Upon her return you filled her in on everything that had happened, and she offered you the listening ear and measured reasoning you so desperately needed. Away from the base, away from the Autobots and the quandary they present, you find yourself feeling if not at peace, then something very close to it. 

The Autobots send regular probes through to Cybertron in an effort to discern the trajectory and ferocity of the storm. Unfortunately, it seems to have stalled out over Iacon, and until they are able to devise some manner of shielding, it’s pretty clear they’ll be stuck here on Earth for months, maybe more. You’re not entirely sure how you feel about this. It means that Ultra Magnus and Knock Out are within easy reach, but it also means that their home, the one they worked so hard to return to and restore, is once again lost to them. You wish you they could be spared yet another sense of loss. They’ve endured enough in the short span of time you’ve known, endured even more through eons. They deserve to be on their home world, working toward the contentment they have been so long denied.

Being away from the base also grants you clarity. Even though you’d refrained from deepening your connection to Knock Out and strengthening the one with Ultra Magnus, being in proximity to them had clouded your reasoning, your thoughts, your ability to resolve what needed resolving. You’d all three of you remained civil, friendly, but being so near to both of them – knowing intimately just how different they are and how differently they view you – well, it muddles things. Your thoughts. Your actions. Your feelings. At June’s house, away from anyone that has an iron grip on your emotions, you are finally able start working on figuring out what your next step will be – and building up the courage for it. 

**.x.**

Two months after the Airachnid Event you are standing in your yard, hands tucked into your coat pockets, watching as your custom home builder finishes staking out the dimensions of what will hopefully be, within a year, your new and improved home. Winter has made its first tentative foray into Alberta and the ground and trees are dusted with snow. Your truck is parked in its customary spot, as you’d driven through the ground bridge about 20 minutes before the builder was scheduled to arrive. Your yard bears signs of the battle that had taken place here, though it's nothing that can’t be fixed – chunks of lawn torn up and raked, scorched bits of grass, and one uprooted flowering plum tree. You’re a little salty about that last one. 

When the builder is finished he beckons you over and walks you through the measurements. It all looks good to your admittedly untrained eye, so you finish up by shaking his hand and watching as he drives his black pickup down your driveway. Tucking your chin beneath the collar of your coat to stave off the wind’s chill, you slowly walk around what had once been your house and is now only a tarped-in basement. You attempt to construct your new home in your mind as you walk, thinking about interior colors, new furniture, all the things you need to replace. There’s still a potent sting when you think about what you’d lost, but it _is_ fading. Time’s a hell of a fix sometimes.

A ground bridge opens just as you finish your revolution and you stop with a frown. Airachnid’s gone. Ratchet’s sensors, buried throughout your yard, are perpetually active. Optimus had granted you leave to return here as you pleased without escort only a week ago, so you wonder with sudden alarm if he’s just changed his mind – and even worse, if there’s a _reason_ for him to have changed his mind. 

A full-sized Ultra Magnus steps out of the bridge. It closes behind him, and you call out, “Is something wrong?”

He shakes his head, crosses to you in two strides, and casts an eye over the bevy of wooden stakes and the blue survey flagging tape that connects them all together. You look up at him in mild confusion. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to speak with you. Ratchet said you had come here.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No,” he says, mouth crooking upward in that manner you love so much, “unless you have done something catastrophic within the last twelve cycles?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” you reply archly, “but the day is still young. What did you want to talk about?”

He settles himself down on one knee, leaning over so that you can see his face clearly. “I wish to discuss the topic you are so determined to avoid broaching with me.”

“Oh.” _Shit._ Guess you weren’t as good at hiding your inner unrest as you thought. 

“If you require more time, Earthling, I will understand. But I’ve noticed you have sought me out several times only to leave or bring up mundane topics when we speak.”

“No, now’s fine. I just…well,” and here you pause, slide a hand inside your hood to scratch at the back of your head. “This is going to be hard for me, and–” _For you too._ But you don’t say that, because you’re afraid, because you still don’t really know what you’re doing, only that you _have_ to do _something._

“Would it help if I spoke first?”

Surprised, you look up at him and nod, feeling your stomach twist into a knot. The last two months you’d had a reprieve, kind of, from being all knotted up due to how you feel for him and Knock Out. Compartmentalizing, well, it’s what you do. All that stuff you’d shut away comes thundering back now as you wait for his words. Your fingers find the strings that adjust your hood and start to play with them nervously.

“We’ve both acknowledged we made a mistake in deciding to separate,” he begins, and his expression as he says those words hurts you. He is solemn as always, yes, but also unsure. Hesitant. In anyone else, you’d call it apprehension, maybe. “We were foolish, and I’ve regretted it every day since.”

“Me too,” you say quietly. 

“I already told you that the way I feel for you is unchanged, but perhaps that wasn’t true. What I feel, Earthling, _has_ altered in some ways. I…” he trails off, his typical resolve gone and in its place is a mixture of things you can’t quite decipher. He looks down for a moment before lifting his eyes to yours and continuing. “I am resentful of the time we wasted. And I resent…”

“Knock Out.”

“Yes. Unsurprising, I’m certain. But it’s not hatred.”

Well, that’s… good?

He goes on. “His attraction to you, and your decision to be with him, were and are beyond my control. You had the right, as did he, and I have striven to reconcile myself with that. Knock Out has his faults, but has proven himself to be a true and reliable part of the Autobots. While I do not consider him a friend, he _is_ a comrade, one that has risked his life multiple times for the rest of us. As much as I resent him, I admire him as well.”

“He feels the same way about you,” you say without really thinking, and then clamp your mouth shut and wonder if you’ve just royally fucked up.

“I know he does,” Ultra Magnus says, “and I also know that you care deeply for him.”

Your response is instinctive and a little panicked. “I don’t love him.”

“I think a part of you does.”

You should refute it, open your mouth and spill all the right words, but you can’t. You won’t. Because, you’re now forced to realize, he’s right. You’d deliberately established your feelings for Knock Out as something less than “really serious” in an effort to prevent an emotional overload, but you suppose you can’t ignore that anymore. Ultra Magnus, deeply discerning, had already known the truth. 

“Maybe I do,” you admit, still unwilling to utter that one word, to admit it all aloud. “But it’s not… it’s not _all_ of me.”

“No,” he acknowledges with a small, torn smile. “The rest is mine.”

And that’s it. That’s the truth. He’s summed it up so succinctly and accurately that you’re not quite sure what to say. You _do_ love them both, but in considerably different ways. You had always thought you were a person who could only love singularly, devote all your attention and focus upon the person most important to you. Turns out you’re capable, perhaps to your detriment and the detriment of everyone involved, of dividing your heart. It’s not a clean or painless process – no, there’s been plenty of hurt, plenty of mess – but it could be something you can live with, adapt to… and perhaps, if you are very, incredibly fortunate, find happiness with.

“Are you okay with it?” you ask Ultra Magnus after a long silence spent wrestling with your thoughts. _“Can_ you be okay with it?”

He nods, gives you a smile that’s a little firmer, a little more decisive, even though that tinge of uncertainty still bleeds through. “I can learn to be.”

Hope and anticipation and disbelief swell inside you, a balloon you feel pressing against your lungs. “Ultra Magnus…”

He reaches for you, curves one large hand around your body and tightens his fingers just enough that you feel safe, supported, cared for. He lowers his head until his face, austere and handsome with its bold lines, is right before yours. 

“I can only do this if you keep _this_ part of you separate from him, Earthling. Who you are when you are with him is different from who you are now. I don’t begrudge you that, nor him for having it, but I _need_ to know that what we have, you and I, is unique and cherished only by us.”

“It is,” you say, and _surprise surprise!_ your voice wavers with the threat of tears. “It will be. How I feel – the way I love you is – is –” 

You stammer, unable to manifest your words coherently. Your jittery body language and wide, damp eyes do the job for you, though, because he smiles and it is an honest, genuine smile, the rare kind he reserves only for you. Your heart seizes with the force of what you feel for him in this moment and you’re overwhelmed. You can only stare up at him and marvel that the two of you found your way back together, that he is not only prepared but is willing to share you with another, that you can possibly have them both. 

He gives you time to gather yourself, his hand at your back a reassuring one, and when you can breathe without crying or hyperventilating in joy (it’s a bit of a toss up which one will triumph), he speaks again. 

“Come to me tonight.”

You’re familiar with the expression he wears now, intense and heated. It’s one you haven’t seen in two years, once that brings to mind the kind of things that have your face blazing red almost instantaneously. You’re suddenly and completely tongue-tied, and given the satisfied edge his smile has taken, he’s very aware of it. 

“Will you?” he prompts, gently teasing.

“I might be busy,” is your breathless attempt at an airy response. His low hum of amusement fills the air. “But,” you add, squirming a little as his fingers flex around you. “I think I can fit you in.”

**.x.**

You get them both. Hard to believe, yeah? You’re undeserving. You’re small and made of stuff far more fragile than they are, short-lived and proned to frequent bouts of emotion and admittedly the maker of some less than reasonable decisions. One of them loves you, the other loves fucking you, and you’re perfectly, wholly satisfied with both.

This state of existence is not without its rough edges. At first your every interaction with either of them was beset by an unnerving sense of awkwardness, of the feeling that you were doing something _wrong_ even though you knew you weren’t. It was, surprisingly, the both of them that eased you through that initial unease, assuring you in their own unspoken ways that all three of you agreed to this. Knock Out, who you’d half-feared would gloat or drop insinuations when in the presence of Ultra Magnus, had done neither, instead behaving as he normally does. He is still cocksure, irreverent and playful, but never during inappropriate times – well, never during inappropriate times while in proximity of Ultra Magnus. 

Still, what happened with Airachnid has left its mark on him, and you catch glimpses of it from time to time when the two of you are alone together. It’s there in the way he touches your body, when passion abates and tenderness takes over, in the way he marks and cherishes all your delicate curves and hollows. His apology is in his touch, in the light grazing of fingers and mouth, a loving gentleness you’d once never expected he could be capable of. The past is the past, yes, but it has left its wounds on you both, and you will work on mending them together.

The other times, the times when all that matters is your mutual desire for each other, well – he’s commanding and arrogant and teasing and he plays you as the willing, pliant instrument that you are. And now, with the new twist your sex life has taken, it’s given him something new to torment you with.

“What if he were here now?” he asks one night as he lazily moves inside of you. You’ve already orgasmed once and you lie satisfied and dazed beneath him, one of your hands stretched over your head clasped in his, the other pressed against his chest. His words cause your eyes to fly to his, make you inhale in sheer astonishment. 

“What if,” he breathes, lowering his head so that his mouth brushes hotly against your ear, “he was watching us now? Watching as I did _this–”_ he punctuates it with a hard thrust, holding himself deep inside you as you bite your lip against a sudden moan. He lifts his head, lips curving to see how very flushed you are yet again, to see the obvious effect his line of questioning has had. 

“What if he were touching you, _here–”_ he whispers, thumbing one of your nipples, rolling it in a way that has you gasping, “while I fuck you, Just. Like. This.” Those last three words are accented by the snapping of his hips as he drives into you, relentless and committed to this new form of hedonistic torture. Your pleasure swells, racing you along to the pinnacle, driven by the images that are now seared into your brain, of the two of you just like this, of Ultra Magnus here as well–

“What if he were the one fucking you?” he asks after catching your bottom lip between his teeth. His lips are on your neck; you feel them move as he keeps talking. “What if it was his spike buried in you now?”

You are writhing beneath him, caught in the grips of an exhilaration unlike any you’ve known before, spurred by these fantasies he’s so masterfully spinning. You are close, very close, and seeing this he continues as he fucks you, his voice his own kind of breathless as he moves. “What if I were watching, Earthling? What if I stood over you both, my spike in my hand, stroking as–”

He doesn’t need to finish, because you’re abruptly there, your body going rigid as you hit your climax, your fingers spasming against his chest. It rips the air from you, an explosive exhale that trails into a low cry and then transitions into a sharp inhale as he gives one last, powerful thrust and empties himself within you. His ragged groan echoes in your ear as he collapses, gently, atop of you, as he lets your hand go in order to tangle his fingers in the strands of your sweat-damp hair. 

“Do you think,” he pants, pressing his lips briefly, firmly against yours, “that you could convince him to join us sometime?”

“I don’t know,” is your nearly soundless response as you struggle to catch your breath.

“Try,” he encourages, nuzzling your neck, “Please.”

**.x.**

So–

This is your life now. New home underway. Two lovers. A sense of absolute contentment and periods of incredulousness that you could be so lucky. Not bad, considering the ways had been going – a happy ending fetched from the depths of despair and awfulness. It all turned itself around, even though history has left its irremovable blemishes. You can deal with those, though. You have the strength and support to do so. You’re going to be okay. 

Yeah, you’re going to be just fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I started this I had it tagged as "possible OT3" because I was pretty sure I wasn't going to be able to do it. In early versions it was either KO or UM at the end, never both, but hey here we are and I'm pretty happy with it. 
> 
> Shoutout to Victoria and Meagan for our chats about TF, because they helped to keep me inspired. 
> 
> Many heartfelt thank yous to all of you read, and those of you who left a review every chapter are truly wonderful. Hearing what you thought every step of the way was not only crucial to my being able to finish this, but also helped to shape the direction of the story. 
> 
> I think I'm done with UM for now. **RunMild,** you'd asked if I'd ever write KO with another Reader character and the answer is yes. I've got an idea for a one-shot that takes place at a drive-in movie, it's just a matter of when I get to it. I'll keep plugging away at Optimus/Megatron/Dreadwing in the meanwhile, and also have something brewing for a space/survival horror Shockwave/Reader that will appear at some point. 
> 
> I'll conclude with another huge **Thank You** to everyone for coming along on this ride. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [candlewhacks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candlewhacks/pseuds/candlewhacks) Log in to view. 




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